In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  In Good Conscience - Copyright 2018, Cat Gardiner

  Publisher: Vanity & Pride Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting brief quotations used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editor: Kristi Rawley, Periplus Editing

  Cover Design: Jane Dixon

  YouTube: Playlist

  Pinterest Inspiration: Board

  Series “Operation” References

  Denial of Conscience

  Operation Samba: Yungas Valley, Bolivia

  Operation Virginia Reel: Virginia, USA

  Operation Mambo: Cuba

  Operation Kazatsky: Russia

  Operation Cancan: Monte Carlo, Seville, Marrakesh

  Without a Conscience

  Operation Macarena: Peru, Paris, Moscow

  Operation Viennese Waltz: Sierra Leone, Austria

  Operation Two-Step: Texas, USA

  Operation Shag: South Carolina, USA

  In Good Conscience

  Operation Gombey: Bermuda

  Operation Merengue: Dominican Republic

  Operation Zeybek: Turkey

  Off-book Operation Black Ice: Panama, Bolivia, Peru,

  Paraguay, Cadiz, Venice, Prague

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Series “Operation” References

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Epilogue

  Music References

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Vanity & Pride Press

  “Revenge should have no bounds.”

  ~Hamlet, William Shakespeare

  Prologue

  July 22

  Virginia

  At three in the morning, under the cover of wicked winds and torrential rain, the sniper had climbed over the fifteen-foot centuries-old perimeter wall, slipped past the guards, and avoided the security trail cameras within the thick forest. Like a deadly Diamondback, he’d advanced in a modified, measured Army crawl using his tight abdomen in conjunction with his moving knees and feet, modeled after the silent stalking of a lethal pit viper as it sized-up its prey before striking.

  Each push and pull of his body moved him along the muddy ground covered by decayed leaves afforded precious moments in selecting his hide high above. Using specially designed spiked shoes he had made for tree climbing, he had silently scaled 50 feet up a massive oak with his rifle slung below the leaf and bark-covered ghillie camo covering his body. His hands and feet acted as claws until he settled on a sturdy branch. In all, it had taken him four hours from wall to hide site.

  Taking minute movements over thirty minutes, he slowly made sure the rifle’s bipod legs were firm upon the bark, ready to take his first shot when appropriate.

  That was 40 hours ago, two long, wet days spent watching and waiting for the perfect moment to execute his kill shots, but his specific target was never alone in the house, which was a requirement to this hired-gun mission; his on-again, off-again employer had paid him well for following instructions. The woman must be alone; it was part of the plan.

  Loyalty was paid in spades, as was betrayal or defiance. He knew his employer’s bent toward evil, having freelanced for him in South America, Italy, and Pakistan through contacts in the rogue element of the CIA as well as the gun-for-hire classifieds site on the dark web. Failure was never an option with this guy. If a mission went to hell, he knew there was another contract-killer right behind to take him out. All for a price, all without a conscience. He also knew he was expendable but also held onto his credo that fidelity was as negotiable as the compensation for it. For the right price, he could change his loyalty on a dime.

  Although glad to be back in the United States after a long mission, the current conditions were too much like an Amazon rainforest—which proved to be both a boon and a curse. A boon because the sentries guarding the perimeter of this estate had been handicapped by the ferocity of weather, and a curse because it made for a water-slogged camo suit that weighed him down like a wet, smelly blanket.

  Today, Sunday, at zero six hundred hours, a much-needed break to his situation came with dawn: sunrise in a cloudless sky. Stilled in his hidden perch, his dark brown eye continued to focus through the rifle scope’s crosshair. The rising sun infused shades of russet and gold through the abundant green leaves surrounding him. The weather had cooled from the hurricane-like storm to an eerie fog that clung to the grazing fields beyond the tree-line. He was sure that since the weather cleared, his target’s husband would bolt. No man worth his balls—especially one who had an isolated career—could withstand that amount of couple-togetherness without wanting to blow his brains out, even if the sex was awesome.

  His mind traveled to some of the more advantageous aspects of this assignment: namely, the perfection of his hide, which possessed a clear view of the entire estate grounds and his target through the canopy. His target?—a smokin’ hot brunette with long legs and curves that could make any man go insane. Her peaches and cream perfection had been exposed for his lustful libido through his rifle optic fixed toward the back of the house. From his bird’s-eye view, he could see everything that happened within the bedroom, the kitchen, the bath, and the sunroom on the first floor. The two occupants passed the rainy days going at it hot and heavy, which was another boon to this op. She was a wild ride in the sack; watching her was an absolute turn-on and made the last, miserable 40 hours nearly tolerable. But damn, he could do nothing to alleviate his predicament, frozen on his stomach as he was.

  His image-intensifying night scope came in handy, particularly since the woman’s ivory visage was exaggerated in the green low-light when her lover—a stone-cold killer he knew by reputation alone—seduced her, again. Surprisingly, the old dude could go for a hell of a lot longer than he could and she’d responded with equal appetite. The intense eroticism was enough to make any interloper green with jealousy, then red with desire.

  Yeah, sure it was a damn shame the woman had to die in the overblown manner devised for her, but—coming full circle in his thoughts—he’d promised loyalty in executing this mission. That’s what contract killers did until the job was done. He and another—a girl, he heard—were specifically chosen as the harbingers of war and destruction in his employer’s plot: the physical, emotional, and mental obliteration of his enemy. This pseudo-psychological warfare revenge crap was payback and meant to unleash all unholy hell. He, with his sharpshooting specialty rifle rounds, and she, with her bomb-making expertise.

  He had a better suggestion—though he’d not voice it: kill the enemy outright with one bullet to the brain, take the target, and alleviate his own physically pressing need. But no, his contract boss got off on the credo: “Revenge was a dish best serv
ed cold.” The maniacal fucker had been very patient in the knowledge that ice thaws in time. A peaceful hiatus was known to lull a man into a false sense of security, as proven once already with this challenging nemesis. Fury also made a man weak. Blinded by rage and revenge, the enemy would act carelessly until finally facing his own death. The woman’s death was meant to torment him. Whatever. Surely, this bad ass son of a bitch wouldn’t be affected by any woman’s death. Rumor had it he was cold and ferocious.

  A flash of brilliant red passed before the scope, landing only a foot from where he lay. A cardinal’s tiny scarlet and black head turned in the sunlight, then hopped onto the camouflaged barrel, which looked to be part of the branch. The bird’s annoying chirping was like Chinese water torture. But he could not react. Instead, he imagined just reaching out and crushing it within his hand.

  Below him, a guard’s heavy boots squished the water-slogged leaves on the forest bed. Apart from his holstered side arm and the rifle slung over his shoulder, he wore tactical gear, a bullet-proof vest, and a black baseball cap. Over the last two days, he’d observed about a half-dozen more like him: hard-boiled, idealistic “white hats” all cut from the same mold: American military contractors, just like he was. For a short time, he was once Army, until his BCD (bad conduct discharge.) No worries, he took his skills and sold them to the highest bidder (that had always been the plan.) At only 23 years old, he prided himself on having become sought after. Very few hired guns, could snipe—on the fly—with a mega rifle like a .50 caliber and a handful of specially made High Explosive Incendiary bullets with such successful accuracy at a target range outside 2,000 meters. This assignment would be cake. The forest was only 150 meters from his objective.

  “All clear on the southern perimeter,” the dude spoke into his comms. “Copy. Is he taking the Spider? … Right. So, she’s staying? … Copy. Let Dixon know and have the Hummer ready. Send Lennox back here to cover. Over.”

  The guard made a brief sweep of the canopy, but the sniper was well-hidden, undetectable to even the best of the best. He then proceeded to the tree line and across the pasture toward the horse stable.

  Technically, he could pick them off one at a time from his perch: the guard below him, the rifleman on the guard house roof, the sentry in the west field, the ranch hand at the stable. But where was the fun in that? He liked when things unexpectedly exploded into a million flaming pieces.

  Just as he’d figured—after getting sexed up, the target’s lover was making his getaway. His legendary reputation as one callous, bad-ass, mo-fo was confirmed by that very act of love-’em-and-leave-’em once he had his fill and the weather cleared.

  As for him, it was back to waiting and watching for the red Ferrari within his view to leave with only one passenger. In the interim, he’d spend the rest of the morning imagining how his target could feel below him before all hell burned down around her.

  ***

  “Good morning, sleepy head,” Fitzwilliam Darcy whispered into his wife’s ear. He almost hated to wake her, but he’d not leave the house without doing so. Just a single kiss to Liz’s temple could never suffice.

  “Hmm … is it that time, already?”

  He sat beside her on the rumpled bed. “Yeah. I won’t be gone too long.”

  Rolling to her back, she looked so ravishing in the diffused early light. Her long hair was splayed across the pillow in an alluring mess. She stretched, raising her hand through the tangles, baring her porcelain décolletage when the bed linen shifted. “Oh, I slept sooo good … when we finally fell back to sleep. What an incredible night.”

  “It was. Great meal, good movie, fabulous wine, and the company wasn’t too shabby either.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it, wise guy. It’s what you and your Chironius carinatus did with said company that was so great. All the rest was very effective foreplay.”

  “Yeah … that was all right, too,” he dispassionately teased, with a shrug.

  “(Snort) Bulldinkey.”

  She was right; it was quite a night, and this morning he felt like he could conquer the world. The rain had finally stopped, his libido was satiated, and his heart was bursting from looking at her, just from recalling their emotional lovemaking. What more could a man ask for? Well, truth be told, a few things, but those were dark thoughts and had no place at Pemberley on this incredible morning.

  Liz chuckled then reached up, tugging his polo shirt to bring his lips down to meet hers. “Don’t be long, honey,” she whispered before kissing him. Her pliable, soft mouth against his was the perfect sensation in which to begin a day.

  “What will you do while I’m gone this morning?”

  “I’ll probably sit in the greenhouse and check on my new addition. But first I think I’ll hit the punching bag before breakfast. I remarkably have a ton of energy humming through my body this morning.”

  “I wonder why.”

  She yawned and stretched again. “Has it stopped raining?”

  “It has.”

  Distracted with seduction in mind, her fingers brushed over the tribal armband tattoo around his bicep. “Maybe … you can be late? Rick will understand.”

  “I’m sorry, babe. As much as I’d love a repeat of last night, I gotta go. I’m already running late, and you know how annoyingly fastidious Rick is about schedules.”

  Of course, he’d like nothing better than to stay, but he’d made an unbreakable commitment to his cousin. Coffee and conversation at their usual haunt: Tryst café, inside the Beltway. Rick had something important to discuss, and he was assuming it had to do with unfinished Obsidian “business.” Given that he and Liz were enjoying their secluded summer of baby-making while planning a four-week-long vacation in celebration of their first wedding anniversary, he freely admitted that he’d been dragging his feet about leaving Leesburg to going after Sanchez-Morales, otherwise known to them as Diablo. No doubt, his cousin was going to put the pressure on him, give him an earful about going soft. The man presumed that after two and a half months, the Iceman was a melted puddle. Hardly. Just because he wasn’t “actively” going after Diablo—didn’t mean that he hadn’t been busy making plans.

  AC/DC was back on his playlist and, physically, he was as buff as the Iceman of old. Daily rifle practicing and teaching Liz Fairbairn’s gutter fighting, as well as knife throwing, had consumed them both. His kill-shot was as accurate as ever and he now added pistol acumen to his skill-set. Pre-dawn laps on par with his SEAL training were part of his daily regimen. Further, as almost a necessity, apart from his demonstrative romantic side, which only his wife was witness to, he was back to being one grumpy bastard and damn proud of it!

  “I didn’t mean you should be late so we can have sex, Fitzwilliam. Sheesh. I meant, stay for breakfast with me,” she corrected with an index finger poke to the snake tat on his forearm.

  “Breakfast, sex—same thing.”

  He lifted her fingers to his lips followed by a kiss to each knuckle in tiny pecks. “We’ll have lunch together … I promise. Then you and I will go at it on the mats for a real work out, followed by a bike ride.”

  “Sounds perfect!” Her excited grin reached her hazel eyes.

  “Liz, if you need anything, call Dixon; he’s in the guardhouse this morning. And before you command me … yes, Higgins is coming with me.”

  “I’ll be fine, Fitzwilliam.” Sitting up, she stretched again, dragging the back of her hand up her neck.

  Still, he was worried—he always worried—had never stopped silently worrying about Lakmé’s safety since Operation Macarena wrapped up in Moscow in late April. He couldn’t be her bodyguard every minute of the day. But until he was ready to go after Morales, he’d damned-well make sure that someone would have her back in his absence. Their head of security, Dixon, a 58 year-old crusty Marine—and a deadly son of a bitch when he needed to be—had eyes in the back of his head. Apart from the entire lethal team at Obsidian, he was one of only a few he’d entrust Liz�
�s personal protection to. And, of course, it had to be from a distance or she’d go ballistic on them all. Sure, she could handle herself, but she had a long way to go before being on-par with Caroline’s skills. Further, smothering her was something he fought hard against following their dangerous trip to Paris and Moscow and her admonishment of him. Covert protection was tantamount in keeping his marriage conflict-free. He’d learned at least that much.

  Standing over her, he brushed his finger down her cheek. “Just let Dixon know where you’ll be. Please … for me.”

  “Yes, darling,” she placated with a hint of sarcasm, clearly feeling the loss of absolute freedom.

  “I know it seems like I’m smothering you, but I’d feel better if you kept him in the loop since the Reynoldses are in Texas for the month.”

  Smiling, which he knew was fake, she said, “Whatever you think is best.”

  He knew she was lying, too, but bent, giving her a peck on the lips. “Then I think a Metallica playlist for your workout on the speed bag is best.”

  “Pfft. Heavy metal? Totally not gonna happen. I think a Haydn allegro is best, thankyouverymuch.”

  In a flash, she threw back the blankets and rose, promptly snaking her arms around his neck and gifting him with the most provocative kiss. Of course, he couldn’t help gliding his hand down her nude form, from soft back to supple bottom.

  “Have a good time with Rick, sexy,” she said with a pat to his cheek. “Give him my love,” she added, sliding her hand down his torso.

  “You are a tease.”

  “Yup!”

  In typical Liz fashion, she sauntered to the bathroom with a playful exaggerated sway to her backside, that little heart tattoo tempting him, as if her kiss hadn’t been enough to entice him.

  “Love you!” she called after him.

  “Ditto. Hey, Liz?”

  She stopped and turned to him with a sweet smile.

  “It’s not gonna be like this forever,” he said.

  “No? Not this happy?”