It ate at him, that word, with tiny, razor-sharp bites, reminding him he’d never watch Tess run in the desert again. That their time was finally ending. Manfully, Turik reminded himself he had the better woman in his life, his dear, sweet Alessa. Hadn’t she given up her country out of love for him? Hadn’t she proved that love time and time again? And yet...
His excellent scope instantly brought Tess up close and personal one more time. What he wouldn’t give for another day with her. One last kiss. It wouldn’t really be a sin against Alessa, not if it was only a goodbye kiss. Would it?
He knew better.
Fine.
The pink cherry blossom haze of April in Washington D.C. conflicted his view, making the upcoming shot difficult, but not impossible. Any sniper worth his salt knew how to solve that mathematical dilemma. Turik had adjusted his reticle for the distance. Made the necessary ocular alteration. The parallax, too. He’d accounted for the effect of the warmer breeze in the city to the cooler breeze coming off the Tidal Basin to the west of his target. A sniper knew how to use the forces of nature to accomplish his goal. He might have to aim farther to the left to hit the man he’d come to kill, but he’d had enough practice over the years. He could make the hit.
Night had fallen, requiring further refinement to his settings, but Turik had the time to be thorough. Ashley Fellows was away on business in Tampa, Florida. She’d never know her pristine home had served as a sniper hide on this, Tess Culver’s wedding day.
“How can you see him all the way over there?” Omar asked quietly.
“I have an excellent scope,” Turik murmured, his eye intent on the bride. Tess truly looked happy, her eyes aglow while she danced with her husband. Today she’d promised to love, honor, and obey. A pinch of jealousy stabbed Turik’s proud, manly heart at the thought of that wedding bed, but he brushed it quickly away. Alessa owned his soul now. Tess was a thing of the past. He let her go—again.
She’d found her Alexander twice by the time she’d moved back home to America. Once in the tribal chieftain, Iskandar Kadir, a proven descendant of the legendary Alexander the Great if the DNA test could be trusted. The second time was in Lee Hart, the rakishly good-looking American Marine who held her against his muscular body like she meant everything to him. Lucky sot.
Turik blinked, the pinpoint of his laser centered on the back of Lee’s head. He lowered the crosshairs to the bride in Lee’s powerful arms, his heart suddenly stuck in the back of his throat, making it harder to breathe. There was a time when Tess had looked adoringly up at Turik. Just. Like. That. Her midnight blue eyes full of stars. Her tangled ebony locks a dark, magical halo that never failed to draw his focus to her lush red lips. Sinfully full and lusciously wet. Plump and sweet. Still as tempting as ever.
He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, remembering the day he’d bruised those tender ruby reds in the middle of Trafalgar Square. London. It was raining. She’d squealed about something or other. He honestly couldn’t recall what she’d been ecstatic about that time. He could barely remember his name after she’d grabbed him by his jacket collar and kissed the hell out of him with those lips. With that sassy tongue. With every last ounce of her passionate heart.
The wildfire named Tess had stolen his heart at that precise moment in time, the wickedly sinful taste of Irish coffee still on her tongue, on her breath. Her mouth had been on his, breathing a wild and crazy kind of life into him.
He’d kissed her back, the door to his passionate soul breached and the fierce lion in his Pashtun heart unleashed. The world had stopped spinning. He hadn’t been able to catch his breath, and he, Mohammed Turik, would have renounced his family, his country, and his god if it meant Tess would have loved him then the way she loved Lee Hart now.
But she didn’t.
Turik faced the truth. He swallowed hard. She’ll be—fine. Just fine.
Scanning the other dancers at the reception, he withdrew from the world with all its memories and calmed his soul, still determined to fulfill his mission. Sadly, it had to be done.
Tess had proved Iskandar’s noble lineage. The treasures she’d stolen didn’t make it to the Louvre as she’d originally planned, but to this day remained in the safe-keeping of the ancient Queen Roxana and her son, Alexander IV, alongside the loot Turik had recovered before he and Lee reduced Nizari’s place to ashes.
Nizari’s body was never found. Tsk. Tsk. A shame that.
Tonight’s shot would raise an alarm, but by the time the local authorities covered the body and estimated the killing shot’s trajectory, Turik and Omar would be gone. Ashley Fellows’ patio door would be closed and locked up tight, every last fingerprint wiped. The scent of the pink dahlias in the fine crystal vase in the center of her dining table would cover the slightest out-of-place odor, and no doubt, she would wonder who’d left them. He’d never tell.
“They’re dancing now.” Omar kept vigilant watch through the high-powered binoculars Turik had loaned him. “Oh, look. There. I see him.”
I see him, too, the lucky bastard. Damn Lee Hart for being all Tess wanted and needed. For being so tall that his muscular body overshadowed her so much that she had to look up at him like a little girl with adoration in her eyes. So broad-shouldered that his body easily encompassed her delicate, feminine curves, that he held her in his big, manly hands like the rarest treasure in his world. So dashing and handsome in that black tux that he looked better than all the princes of Arabia. Damn him.
What was not to like about the gentle giant staring down into Tess’s blue eyes like a lover? Lee Hart possessed uncommon virtues. Incredible resilience. Honor. Humility too. The man was what American soldiers call badassed. Turik had to wonder, had Lee always been this noble? But of course. That was what heroes were made of, and there they were. The woman who would always haunt his dreams was finally married to the only hero in the world for her.
Like it or not, Lee would do Tess proud. Turik knew that for a fact. He’d worked his fingers to the bone to pull off another impossible dream—that of getting adoption papers through the bureaucratic nightmare of his government. Lee had done his share of bartering and working his side of the system, but it was done. The adoptions were cleared. Tess just had to sign the papers and she would have what she wanted. Mina and Jamaal.
Just. Not. Me.
Turik blew out an exasperated breath at the lovely apparition in his sights. What he wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when Lee told her about Mina and Jamaal. Would she cry? Would she wrap her slender arms around that strong man’s neck and cover him in kisses? Would that tender embrace lead to Lee taking hold of Tess and making mad, passionate love to—?
Let her go, Turik commanded himself sternly. Alessa. I only love Alessa.
“What are you waiting for?” Omar groused impatiently. “Do you not see him? Is that not him at the north side coming up from the basement? See?”
Chagrined at his apprentice’s scolding, Turik panned to his left and—there he was. Finally alone. The last assassin. Creeping in the shadows like the coward he was. Disguised as a waiter, passing champagne on a tray that possibly concealed a blade or pistol beneath its crisp, white napkin. Come to wreak Hasim Nizari’s brand of havoc one last time. Come to destroy something beautiful and noble and pure. Come to kill Tess and Lee.
By Allah, no more. It ended tonight.
Ballistics. Elevation. The breeze tossing Tess’s curls to reveal the blush on her cheeks was just enough to also determine wind speed. Turik bowed to the precision sniper of his soul. His pure gift from Allah. His wedding gift now to Tess.
He calmed, the universe at last in league with the blessed duty of the night. He inhaled, then exhaled with deliberate slowness and held. Even the cherry blossoms between him and his target parted.
He squeezed the trigger slowly and precisely and held it as the round launched through space and time to its intended kill. Omar jumped at the report, but Turik didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t take a breath. Didn’t eve
n blink. He needed to see the impact. The hit. The back spray when the round plowed through skull and brain matter. The shock in that dead man’s eyes when he met his end. Turik needed to know for certain the last of Nizari’s tentacles was finally severed.
The round hit true.
Allah be praised. Abdul Sherazi, the last Hashshashin of Hasim Nizari, was dead.
Turik stilled to watch the ensuing chaos through his scope. Lee had taken Tess to ground, the poor thing, wedding dress and all. Turik could no longer see her sweet face, not with Lee’s massive body crouched over her like he was. God, the fierce rage in that man’s eyes. Alarmingly savage. Amazingly passionate. Magnificent was what Lee was. A true warrior. Precisely what a recklessly daring woman like Tess needed in her perfect mate. Someone who was tough enough to take on the world and willing to do it alone—for her.
Of course every other TEAM agent sprang to Lee’s defense, a murderous quantity of pistols now bristled in Turik’s direction. Wouldn’t you know? Alex Stewart stood on point, a short stock automatic rifle stuck in his shoulder, his eye to another excellent scope. Where on earth had he hidden that on his person? If Turik hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn Alex looked straight at him. Daring him. Eye to eye. Assassin to assassin.
But that just wasn’t physically possible, was it? Turik eased to his knees, a small smile tugging at his lips, and his heart at peace with the world again. The deed was done. He could go home to his Alessa now and trust that he loved her as much as she loved him. He could teach Fahim the better paths of his people, the enlightened teachings of wiser, more levelheaded clerics and imams.
Likewise, Tess and Lee would now live a long life unfettered by the devil who had once sorely tested them both. They would make lots of babies. They would live in a free country where those little babies of theirs would never know hunger or fear or war.
They would be—fine.
The End
Sneak Preview of Ky
Book 13
In the Company of Snipers
A man without hope will pray to die.
Lance Corporal Ky Winchester had.
It was five days since Coalition Forces had sent him and his squad to track down Hasim Nizari and bring him to justice. The United States Army wanted the monster dead or alive for his crimes against Afghan women and military prisoners. The ANA, the Afghan National Army wanted him, too. They’d hunted him for months, but the Teflon-coated degenerate had managed to stay one step ahead of the game. Until a couple of ANA soldiers had betrayed Ky and his men, leading him and his RTO, his radio tech officer, down a dead end and straight into hell.
Now Ky knew exactly where the bastard was.
Ky had taken one round to his body armor, just enough to knock him down. Not kill him, damn it. He didn’t recall how he’d gotten from that stinking alley to this modern day pit of despair. He only knew that since he’d come to, torment visited him daily in the ways of cruel men. Fists. Leather belts with sharp buckles. Metal rods. Knives for sport. And worse.
Nizari. The treacherous, cold-blooded banker to the Taliban commandeered his own torture chamber. He was always dressed in a business suit, a linen shirt, and a clean silk tie when he soiled his victims. He always retained cool, aloof control while he worked his dark designs on human flesh. He never lost his composure that Ky could recall. Not once.
God, the depravity of man.
Nizari had yet to make his appearance for the day, but that didn’t mean Ky hadn’t been sorely tried. Hell, no. Nizari had plenty of soldiers in his band of merry men. They’d left Ky hanging so long he’d lost track of all feeling in his arms. He hadn’t eaten in days—was made to endure at the edge of death until he broke.
“Ky.” The single word came to him softly, too quiet to be real, but too loud to be imaginary. He strained to hear it one more time. Dared to believe. His broken nose twitched, and despite the dried clots stuffing it closed, the poor thing still detected a cooling hint of menthol. His nostrils flared, drawing the scent in along with another that was—good. Distinctly female. No man in this hellhole smelled like that.
“Ky.”
His name again. He had heard it. He had! The shiver of hope raced up his spine and over his sweaty scalp. Was this his descent into delirium or the onset of death?
A vision materialized that would’ve made his eyes water if he could’ve opened them. An angel, more blur than shadow, more light than darkness. A hazy halo of gold. Cool, green eyes. Not Kelly green. Not emerald. But a clear, mint green that refreshed like the brisk bite of wintergreen in cold December. He did see her. He did. Maybe...
She drifted toward him, those green eyes too big for her face, and that was the cruelest nightmare of all, because he could—not—see. His heart thumped at the awful paradox he was caught in. His eyes were too swollen and bruised to work. If seeing was believing, what was she? Another nightmare?
Torture would drive a man crazy. But then...
That same drift of menthol and camphor filtered up through his tender nostrils and into his throbbing sinus cavities. He sniffed it in, as painful as the effort was, relishing the calming scent of eucalyptus as it soothed the damaged membranes in his skull. That he knew the distinctive fragrance only proved how close he was to losing his mind. But then...
She. Touched. Him.
Silky, soft fingertips traced his broken orbital bone. Warm palms cupped his bloody chin. Impossible. He swallowed hard, not ready to believe the end had come, that his brain was shutting down, offering hallucinations during his transition from life to death. Just wait. There’ll be a tunnel of light. The pain will cease. My time will end, and I’ll be free, and...
The light-as-breath brush of delicate arms encompassed his ragged, sweaty body. Another heartbeat echoed against his as if this gentle apparition cradled his head to her breasts, his ear to her heart, and God! This hallucination felt so good. He would’ve cried if he could have.
Perhaps it was merely the onset of his dying heart begging to be set free from torment, but it seemed so real. Greedily, he turned his face into the softness and warmth of that imaginary female body, seeking the comfort she offered. Wanting so much to believe. Needing her to—please, God! Be more than a wish and a prayer.
Her warm breath caressed the curl of his ear. He didn’t understand how it worked; he only knew that his dream whispered loud enough he could no longer doubt her. “I’m here, Ky. I’m not leaving you.”
She’d no more than stopped speaking when the wooden door to his sweatbox banged open. The sharp metallic tang of a lighted propane torch struck his nostrils. Oh, God. Another twist to the torture.
“Hold onto me,” she commanded, her grip tighter.
God, he wanted to, but frantic panic crawled up his spine like a living thing, a sinister ice-cold dragon with serrated talons, an icicle tail that wrapped around his neck and choked him. It came with the despair of reality, the shuddering fear of the living damned. He clenched the chain instead of his imaginary angel and prepared to meet his maker.
“You talk now?” Nizari’s brutal lackey asked, smacking something against his open palm with an intimidating thwack, thwack, thwack.
That was why his angel asked him to hold on. Somehow she’d known. This was it. His last moment on earth.
His soon-to-be murderer landed a sharp fist to his gut. The unexpected impact sent him spinning into the wall.
Ky wouldn’t cry out, not to this bastard, but he did want to tell that patient angel, who lingered at the edge of his mind, “Thanks for trying. Leave now. Never look back. Save yourself.”
Instead, the menthol scent grew stronger. Her hands grew tighter. “I won’t let you go.”
Yes. You will.
His captor muttered a bizarre gurgling curse. It sounded as if someone had joined the guy with the torch, no doubt both licking their chops for the despicable pleasure they derived from torturing Americans. Bastards. Every last one of them.
Ky bowed his chin to his chest and prepared to
die. He didn’t dare guess which appendage this bastard would burn first. Toes. Hair. His face. His balls. It didn’t friggin’ matter. He could take no more. Just get it the fuck over with! Kill me!
But then a hand steadied Ky’s trembling body. A big hand. A kind hand. “You gonna make it?” a gentler voice asked. Strong and clear. American.
The chain lowered Ky to the floor, but his feet couldn’t support his own weight. He collapsed even as his ears strained for another word, needing to know for certain this was no trick or dream, that this person was not Afghan. Not Mideastern. Not even from this part of the goddamned world.
“You okay?” The man spoke again, softer this time. Tenderly. Definite East Coast accent.
Thank God. Ky groaned a raspy, “Hell, yeah.”
Careful fingers travelled over his neck and shoulders, down his arms and across his ribs, physically checking without leaving pain in their wake. How odd that he flinched anyway. That it took the last of his willpower not to scream after all—that.
Freedom hurt so damned good.
He gave East Coast the best answer a jarhead knew. “Ooh-rah,” he choked, his tongue parched, his lips swollen and ragged. “God bless... America.”
“Whatever,” the guy muttered. “Can you walk?”
“Yes,” Ky ground out through clenched teeth. I can run, just get me the hell out of here!
But rolling to his side took his breath. His mouth filled with blood. Drawing his arms down to his sides hurt like a mother. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“What’s your name, Marine?”
Ky faced his rescuer like a man. “USMC Lance Corporal Ky Winchester, sir.” Damn, he’d mumbled like he had a mouth full of marbles.
East Coast didn’t seem to notice. “Damned good to meet you, Ky. I’m USMC Corporal Lee Hart, buddy.” Lee pushed a knife handle into Ky’s bloody fingers. “You kill the first bastard that lays a hand on you, understand? Gut him like a fish. Make him pay for everything he did to you.”
Lee (In the Company of Snipers Book 12) Page 36
