“Good. Alright, four trees to the right along the tree line. Aim for chest high.” Smith didn’t move as she cycled the bolt, keeping her cheek to the stock, and then she looked for his target. “I’ll know if you aim too high or low, C.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Another slow breath, another exhale, another trigger squeeze. “Hit,” she called the shot just before the bullet tore into the tree about five feet off the ground. There was no stifling the proud grin on her face, but Smith kept his eye to the sight scanning for a new target. Leaning up she ejected the last shell and reloaded the rifle, pushing the bolt forward and closing it as she settled back onto her belly.
“Alright, prep for a miss. Two trees to the left of the original target, hit center mass, then cycle and hit the tree just back and to the left. Imagine him running.”
“That will be fun to picture.”
“Focus, C. Speed will matter once he’s visible, and even more if you happen to miss.”
“You think I’m going to miss? With this asshole?”
He sighed beside her. “Go.”
“Fine.” She took her time finding the tree, checking her count to ensure she didn’t shoot the wrong tree. Slow breathing, careful trigger pull – hit – then she cycled fast, keeping her chin firm against the stock, and pushed the bolt forward and down in a smooth arc. Left, back, squeeze. The bullet clipped the edge of the tree, still sending splinters of wood, but it wouldn’t have been a kill shot.
“Miss.”
“That was not a fucking miss!” With a growl she leaned up onto one arm and he broke off from his sight to level his gaze at her.
“Really? Where’s that round?”
“Not in the tree, but I still would have wounded him!”
“And you’d need to reload, which would take time. He could get out of view in no time.” Those jade eyes were merciless as he tilted his head towards the tree line. “Again.”
“Fine,” she growled, reloading and doing her best to release her anger as she settled behind the sniper rifle again. “How many trees deserve to die today?”
“As many as it takes for you to do it right.” Smith’s teacher voice rolled out like an old recording. This wasn’t the guy who kissed her like she was the only woman on the planet, or the sinfully perfect one who licked her until she came screaming his name – no, this was the killer. The perfect angel of death who had never given her an inch when it came to work.
“Just pick a fucking tree.”
There was no laughter in his voice as he named the next two targets, and the next set, and the next. Steadily widening her angles until she had to adjust for bullet drop, wind, temperature – a fuckton of variables that made her work harder and harder for a hit.
But, finally, frozen to the bone and fighting the urge to shiver so she wouldn’t blow the target completely with an inconvenient shudder – she showed consistency. At least, she showed it enough that Smith was no longer questioning whether she was a fool for wanting to use the rifle.
“Alright, last shot. I got you some boat-tails for the actual job.” He sat up and dug in the duffel bag, pulling out a box of rounds with tapered, flat bases. “Here.”
Blowing warm air onto her fingers she propped the rifle on her shoulder and rubbed her hands together before she took the single bullet and cycled the bolt one last time. Settling in as she closed it and returned to position.
“Make this, and I’ll get you spaghetti.”
“And vodka.”
A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. “And vodka. Medium trunk, branches coming out pretty low, twelve o’clock, three trees in. See it?”
Blinking a few times Camille focused through the scope. “I think so.”
“Two branches almost at the same place, imagine those as shoulders. Shoot between them.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Squeeze. “Hit,” she whispered against the stock, and then the bullet landed like a dream. Perfectly centered between the branches. Dead shot.
“Perfect.” Smith groaned as he pushed himself up, dropping the sight to the blanket as he rubbed his hands together. She sat up too, cradling the rifle against her shoulder as she blew into her hands. “You feel confident?”
“I’ll need to know his patterns, where he’s going to be so I can find a nest. But as far as hitting him? I’m confident.”
“Good. Lacroix is tailing him for us, we’ll have an idea where to start when we get there.” He took a slow breath, crossing his legs, the fog of his exhale carried away with the wind. “Are you sure you want to do this solo? I can spot.”
“I am. It feels like closing the book on that part of my life, and I want to do that.”
“Alone.” He finished, and he nodded like he understood. “I’d still love to see you put a bullet in him.”
“Still jealous?” Camille joked, but the cold look he gave her cut her laugh short. “He’s the last one, Smith.”
“I know. I just hate -” There was more he wanted to say, she could feel it, but he just growled low in his chest instead.
“He’ll die. That’s all that matters.”
“I’d rather have him die crying and screaming. Like the last two. He doesn’t deserve a quick death.” Smith picked up the sight and shoved it into the bag. “But I know why you want to finish this on your own.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled, ejecting the last cartridge before she started to break down the gun so it would fit in the bag once more. The idea that she should do this on her own had come up at random, during a run, and it was only because she was distracted and out of breath that she’d even spoken it – but Smith had listened. Respected it. Committed to preparing her for the plan.
Confirm identity. Stalk for a good location. Long range kill so she was never at risk.
No chance for Roger to ever get his hands on her. He’d never even see her, never know she was the one who pulled the trigger, and the knowledge that she was completely okay with that fact told her just how far she’d come from her attempt on Joe. The man she’d stupidly called out to and then been shot by – just so he’d know who had killed him.
Like any of that fucking mattered.
“Okay. Let’s head back to the city. Sal’s spaghetti, and I’ll convince him to break out that bottle of vodka he always keeps in the kitchen.” Smith stood and held his hand out for her, and she took it, letting him haul her to her frozen feet.
“Crank up the heat on the way back?”
“Definitely. If I ever want to have a hard-on again I’ll need to.” He grinned and she started laughing as they packed in.
“Look who’s talking dirty now.”
“Like I’ve said before, you have a bad influence on me.” Smith swatted her ass as she started to trudge back through the snow. The blanket over one arm, a pocketful of empty cartridges, and him hauling the heavy duffel like the badass he was, his legs lifting up and out of the snow.
Now all that was left was the actual kill, and then Roger Hendricks would be gone, along with the list that had haunted her for too many years.
She’d be free.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lying on her back she tossed the knife towards the ceiling, then caught it on the way down. Up, down, up, down.
“C.” Smith sighed from the door to the bathroom, and she caught the knife just before it would have landed in her shoulder.
“What?” With a smile she leaned her head back to look at him. Upside down, but still perfect as he brushed the towel over his hair.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” he chided, but she knew he was just nervous.
“I am ready. Like I told you before you took your shower, and before that at lunch, and before that at -”
“I get it.” He grumbled and tossed the towel over the chair, digging in his suitcase for a pair of boxers to pull on.
No sex before jobs. Camille’s least favorite rule of all.
“Do you want me to go through the plan one more time?” She smiled as she rolled over and sat up o
n the bed, because she was ready. Hair pulled into a tight bun, ready for the black beanie that would hide her white blonde hair from picking up the light. The rest of her clothes were black too, layered long sleeves so she’d be warm, but not too hot if she had to run. Dark pants, black sneakers – she’d be a ghost, right after she turned Roger into one.
“Once more. So we’re both solid on it.”
“Roger is holed up in that shithole of a house Lacroix located, and there is an abandoned place behind it, four to the south. They spend time in the yard out back smoking and drinking, and that’s where we have half the fucking surveillance photos from.”
“Yes, we confirmed that.” Smith nodded and pulled out some dark jeans, stepping into them before his head lifted up. “I didn’t say stop.”
Rolling her eyes she started to flip the knife in her hand. Handle, blade, handle, blade. “I’ll toss the rifle bag onto the roof, climb up, then position myself so that I can see just over the lean of the roof. Then I’ll assemble the rifle and keep it out of sight until I see him through the spare scope.”
“What do you do when he’s visible?” Now he was putting on a shirt, covering those carved abs to her great disappointment.
“Get into position. Aim. Wait.”
“And why are you waiting?” Cold, sterile teacher voice. This was the killer making sure she didn’t fuck up.
“Because he could go back inside, and I shouldn’t rush the kill.” Resting the knife on her knee she blew out a breath. “When I’m sure he’s settled outside, then I take aim. When I’m confident in the shot, I take it. Verify the kill. Then roll back away from the edge so I’m out of sight. Dismantle gun, back in the bag, over my shoulder, off the roof and -” A sharp flick of her wrist and the knife buried itself in the wall between a cheap painting and the door frame to the bathroom. “I head back here.”
Smith walked over to her barefoot, his hands cupping her face as his intense gaze captured hers. “What if you miss?”
“I cycle and shoot again.”
“And if you miss then? If they start shooting back?”
“I run.”
“What do you do with the rifle?”
“I wipe it and leave it. It will slow me down.”
With a low groan Smith kissed her softly. “No matter what, you survive. Do you hear me? We can find him again.”
A smile tweaked the edge of her lips up and she overlaid one of his hands with her own. “I’ll be here, Smith.”
“Good.” He released her then, walking back to his suitcase to tug out a black, long-sleeved shirt to pull over the t-shirt. “Text me as soon as he’s down. As soon as you’re on your way back.”
“Of course I will, but can I ask why you’re dressing for a job? Are you planning on stalking me in case I fuck up?” There was more than a little wounded pride showing in her voice, but he shook his head, chuckling quietly.
“I am not planning on stalking you, C. I trust you.” He smiled over at her, all male-model perfection. An angel of death in more ways than one. “I’m doing a favor for someone.”
“A favor?” Shifting on the bed, Camille let her feet hang off the side, watching as he sat down on the floor to tug on socks and dark shoes.
“Lacroix and I have a mutual acquaintance who has run into a little trouble with someone who was supposed to do a job for him. The guy took half the money up front, and then disappeared. That was in Phoenix, and apparently this idiot is here in Detroit.”
“So you’re making us money tonight, and I’m doing the whole V for Vendetta thing?”
“You’re planning on blowing up Parliament?” Smith grinned at her and she laughed.
“No.”
“Good, because I was about to give you a lesson on geography. You’re definitely in the wrong city, and on the wrong continent, if you’re looking to play out your favorite movie.”
“It’s a badass movie.”
“It is.” He stood and walked towards her again, stepping between her knees until she had to crane her neck back to look into his eyes. With a slow movement he brushed a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Fuck, Smith. Of course I will.”
An arch of an eyebrow was the only challenge he gave, but then he ran a thumb over her lips, sending a thrill down her spine. “You’ll carry your gun?”
“I’ve got the Sig Sauer in the bag.”
“Extra clips?”
“Two.”
“Make sure you take the knife out of the wall and bring that too.” He lifted her chin, closing her mouth before she could give a smart-assed retort. “You will text me as soon as you’re clear of the location.”
Camille turned out of his hand and grabbed onto his shirt with both hands, pulling him down to her. “As long as you text me when you’re done dealing with Lacroix’s little problem.”
“I promise.” Smith closed the last inch or two and kissed her, following her as she lay back on the bed, his weight settling over her. One of his hands made its way down her side until he squeezed her hip, holding her in place as he took over the kiss. Their tongues met as they both moaned against each other’s lips – pure temptation, but he had too much self-control to let her tempt him into bed and with a growl he pulled back. “Later. We will finish this later.”
She grinned, biting her bottom lip as he pushed himself up and away from her. “Abso-fucking-lutely we will.”
A laugh left him, light and playful, then he offered her his hand and pulled her off the bed. “No distractions right now. Stay focused on the job.”
“Trust me, I’m not forgetting that I’m putting a bullet in Roger Hendricks tonight.” The darkness crept forward inside her, nightmares and terrible memories bubbling at the edges. Nights when he’d grabbed her without words and dragged her into the basement. No audience. Just so he could bend her over the old, rough table and take her ass where her screams and pleas didn’t matter. She shook her head, trying her best to shake off the images, the phantom memories of pain, and grabbed her coat and the cross-body bag that the rifle just fit in. “We finally found him, Smith, and I’m not going to let anything distract me. I swear.”
“I know.” He turned her around when she slipped the bag over her head, the weight of the weapon and ammo a comfort that didn’t compare to having his hands on her cheeks. “Just listen to me for a second, and don’t make a smart ass comment for once. You are so strong, C. I had no idea just how strong you were when I first met you, I had no idea what you’d survived before you walked into Bill’s that night – but since then you’ve become someone even stronger. You are so talented, so incredibly lethal, and I…” A smile spread over his lips, and then he kissed her gently. “No one stands a chance against you. Just remember that.”
“I had a good teacher.” She winked when he pulled back and he waved off the compliment as he turned back to the duffel of guns and assorted items.
“There’s training, and then there’s natural talent. Now, you have both.” Smith nodded towards the clock on the bedside table. “It’s after ten, shouldn’t you be on your way?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Camille adjusted the bag across her chest, pulling on her gloves and tugging the beanie down over her hair. “Do I look sufficiently deadly?”
“You look like a teenager out after curfew.”
“I’m twenty, Smith, I’m not a fucking teenager anymore.” Pulling the knife out of the wall she flipped it once, and then tucked it into a modified pocket on the front strap of the bag. “And teenagers don’t have sniper rifles in their bags.”
“Hopefully not,” he muttered, but then he stood up and pushed a clip into the bottom of a gun. “You still talk like a teenager though.”
“Fuck off.” Raising her middle finger she took a few steps back towards the door and then she grinned, because not even Smith could hide his smile at this point in their relationship. She flipped the lock on the door and then paused, looking back at him as he tucked t
he first gun away in the small of his back. “Hey, before I go… thanks for letting me do this solo.”
“You’re ready, C. Go and kill him.” Waving her away he crouched beside the bag again, pulling out a second gun. “I want all the details on the hit, alright?”
“I’ll memorize every moment.”
“Good girl.” He smiled at her as he finished loading a clip. “Have fun.”
“I definitely fucking will.” Flashing a grin at him she left, replaying the plan over and over in her head as she snagged a taxi.
One more name.
One more and you’re free.
Everything went perfectly.
She didn’t see a single person as she walked along the streets from where the taxi dropped her, slipping between the houses, up the snowy lawn, fucking up her foot prints along the way so no one could tell if they’d been made coming or going. Walked farther than she needed to, backtracked, and then she tossed the bag up and used the remnants of the broken down fence to get herself onto the roof.
Army crawl across the roof, rifle assembled, spare sight out so she could watch the gathering already in full swing. A bunch of assholes sitting around a BBQ turned fire pit in shitty chairs, chain-smoking cigarettes and other shit.
Show yourself, fucker.
It was a little over a week until Christmas, but Santa came early when one of the men turned around and she saw his face. Roger David Hendricks. Drug dealer, murderer, rapist. He was drinking out of a bottle, watching the other men, and she shifted back to get the rifle.
Gloves off. Back into position. Aim. Wait.
That was the hardest part, as soon as his chest was in her sights her finger itched to pull the trigger – but she took a slow, deep breath and forced herself to hold.
As he walked behind a man sitting in a chair she tracked him, keeping the crosshairs hovering on his chest. He laughed, said something, and the other men in her scope reacted like he was funny.
Enjoy the laugh, dickbag, you’re about to be dead.
He stayed where he was, facing her position like he was begging her to shoot him – and who was she to deny him? Slow breath in, long breath out… and she squeezed the trigger.
Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) Page 27
