Page 11 of Reaper
His hardshell drag bag sits exactly where he dropped it. The canvas is dark with oil and dust. The zipper is partially open, revealing the matte black barrel of the .338 Lapua broken down inside the high-density foam.
It's a weapon designed to end life from an impossible distance.
I step closer. The sharp, metallic scent of gun oil and cordite hangs in the air, a physical reminder of the violence this man brings with him. My fingers brush the edge of the open zipper. Tucked between the high-density foam padding and the ballistic outer shell is a plain manila folder. The edges are heavily worn. The paper is soft from years of constant handling.
A sniper doesn't carry paperwork on a hit. There is zero tactical reason for it.
My pulse kicks up a notch. I pull the folder free.
The weight of it rests in my hands. I flip the cover open, expecting to find a target dossier. A floor plan. A security schedule.
It's a ledger. A handwritten record of death.
My eyes scan the neat, methodical rows of data. Dates. Locations. Names. Payouts. Forty-six individual entries stretching back four years. It's the resume of a ghost. The meticulous career ledger of a man who kills for money. It reads exactly like the dark-money spreadsheets I audit for the Treasury.
I flip past the dead men, jumping straight to the final page.
Adelaide Hart.
My name is written in bold black ink.
The air leaves my lungs in a violent rush.
Next to my name is my rural home address. My vehicle registration. Notes about my daily routine.0600: Coffee on porch. 1900: Data audit.A massive, seven-figure payout is listed in the final column.
A cold, jagged spike of terror drives straight through my chest, pinning me to the floorboards.
He wasn't watching me to intercept the contractor. He wasn't a guardian angel.
I washiscontract.
Someone paid Wyatt Harrison to put a bullet in my head.
Fear spikes through my veins. The nausea hits me so fast the room tilts. It shatters the cold logic I've been running on all morning. The trembling I fought off in the truck cab returns with a vengeance, shaking my hands so hard the thick paper of the ledger rattles in my grip.
I stare at the heavy timber door. That single deadbolt is the only thing standing between me and a professional hitman.
It's the only thing standing between me and the man who just saved my life.
The discontinuity fractures my focus.
He had the contract.
He had the rifle.
He had days to take the shot. Days where he sat on that ridge and watched every single thing I did through his scope.
A slow, heavy heat floods my veins.
Yesterday afternoon. The creek.
I stripped down on the bank, leaving my clothes in the dirt before wading naked into the freezing water. He was on that ridge. He had me perfectly centered in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle, taking in every inch of my bare skin.
He didn't pull the trigger. He just watched.
A hard shiver runs through me, and it has absolutely nothing to do with fear. My face burns. Knowing the man hired to kill me watched me completely stripped bare—knowing the rigid strain of his arousal earlier was directly tied to what he saw—carries a dark, terrifyingly intimate weight.
He had every opportunity to pull the trigger and collect the payout.
