Page 2 of Reaper
The water beaded on her collarbones when she rose, throwing her head back. My grip tightened on the rifle stock. The code demands distance, but the blood pounding in my veins wanted something else. I spent four years existing as a ghost, feeling nothing but cold granite and steel. Watching her shatters that isolation.
A visceral urge seized me, an instinct to abandon the overwatch, cross the valley, and drag my hands down her waist. I needed to grip those hips and pull her flush against me, to windmy fingers into her wet hair and taste the creek water on her mouth. I need to prove to myself that I'm still alive.
Blood rushes south. An aching erection strains against my tactical pants. I shift my weight on the rock, grinding my teeth against the physical discomfort. I fight the distraction, forcing my breathing to steady, but the image of her in the water burns itself into the back of my eyelids. The lack of control is a liability.
For ten minutes, she isn't a federal agent. She isn't a name on a broker's hit list.
She's fierce. Solitary. Beautiful.
Owning her femininity with a raw, unprotected vulnerability that punches the breath out of my lungs.
The memory tightens my jaw. I force my focus back to the present. The crosshairs. The porch. The perimeter.
Dust kicks up on the access road leading to her property.
A gray SUV rolls toward the tree line.
I shift my grip on the rifle. The broker's verifier hasn't come. This isn't a reconnaissance pass. The broker lost faith in my timeline. At hour fifty-one, he sent a replacement.
A cleanup crew.
The SUV parks in the shadow of the pines. A man steps out.
No tactical gear. Just a canvas jacket and a suppressed HK USP in his right hand. He doesn't bother hiding the weapon. He expects an easy kill. An accountant alone in the woods.
He walks toward her porch, his boots crunching on the gravel.
Addy stops on the top step. Her hand drops to the Glock on her hip. She doesn't draw, but she anchors her stance. The casual lean of her body vanishes, replaced by a sudden, rigid tension.
Don't be a hero, Addy. Stay back.
I exhale.
At a mile and a half, I don't shoot where a target is. I shoot where he will be. I operate three seconds in the future. I map thelength of his stride. The arc of his arm raising the HK USP. If I wait until his sights are aligned, Addy dies. He has to go down before his finger finds the trigger.
The world goes perfectly still. The wind dies. My heartbeat slows, the rhythmic thud in my ears fading into nothing.
I squeeze the trigger.
The recoil slams into my shoulder, a brutal, familiar impact. The crack of the shot shatters the silence on the ridge, echoing off the stone.
It takes three seconds for the .338 Lapua round to cross the valley. Three seconds for the present to catch up to the future I just wrote.
One.
Through the glass, the contractor takes another step.
Two.
Addy's fingers curl around the grip of her Glock.
Three.
The contractor raises his weapon. His head snaps back. A spray of crimson mists the air behind him. His body crumples to the dirt, dropping like a severed puppet.
Addy flinches. She stumbles back a step.
Then her training kicks in. The Glock clears her holster in a smooth motion. She sweeps the tree line, bringing the weapon up. Weaver stance solid. Hands completely steady.
