Читать книгу Out of Character - Diana Miller - Страница 5

March 7

He would enjoy killing that bastard.

The man raised his trusty Sig Sauer, his gaze fixed on his target. He took aim then made adjustments until he was positive his aim was perfect. In his business, you rarely got a second chance. He’d never needed one.

He squeezed the trigger, again and again and again. His shots pierced the frosty silence, reverberating in his ears and chest. Every bullet hit precisely at the heart.

He moved the gun a few inches and shot again. A clump of snow exploded, showered the ground, and left a bare branch in its wake. A second shot cleared another branch. An immediate third was back at the heart.

“I think that’s enough practice for today.” He lowered the gun. “Thanks for watching my back.”

The man got up from the tree trunk and brushed a few flecks of snow from his camouflage parka. “Do you want me to take down the target?”

The shooter nodded as he retrieved his M-40 from the ice-hard snow. “This one’s pretty much shot.”

The man chuckled. “That it is. I’ve never seen anyone shoot like you do. Course I’ve never seen anyone practice like you do, either.”

“Revenge is a hell of a motivator.”

The shooter tromped through the snow and trees to the house, a single-story place with weathered wood siding and dark green shingles that blended into the surrounding forest. Its primary attribute was its isolation, thanks to the virtually impenetrable miles of pines, oaks, and birches surrounding it.

Gun drawn, he unlocked the front door and stepped inside. He surveyed the living room and adjacent kitchen, straining to hear a quiet breath or muffled movement, his sixth sense attuned to anything out of place. He’d kept his whereabouts secret and neither of his guards had raised an alarm, but guards could be bought and locations leaked. Only a fool assumed he was safe, and if he’d been a fool, he’d have cashed it in long ago.

Satisfied he was alone, he crossed the stained tan carpet as his nose acclimated to the mustiness and stale cigarette smoke that bombarded him every time he came inside. The place definitely lacked ambiance. But at least it was comfortable. Sometimes he wasn’t even that lucky.

After stashing his rifle in the utility closet, he grabbed a beer from the ancient Frigidaire and strode into the living room. The brown vinyl recliner in the corner was out of view of the windows, making it his favorite chair despite the duct tape patches on both arms. He sank into it, set his handgun within easy reach on the scarred table beside him, and sipped his beer. It was nearly payback time. They’d had their chance to stop him and blown it. Now it was his turn.

Of course, his friend might not come to Keystone, and he’d have to go with the original plan. His gut said he’d show, though, and if he did…

He rubbed the beard he’d been cultivating for the past few weeks as a disguise, not that he usually needed one. Very few people knew his face or real name, only his reputation. This bastard did, though, so a disguise was a necessity, along with a cover that would let him blend in with the families, college kids on spring break, and singles on the make overrunning the area this time of year.

He took a long drink then set the green bottle on the table. The set-up was perfect. If he were lucky, he’d finish the job and get in a couple days of spring skiing.

And if anything went wrong, there were miles of uncharted mountains offering more escape routes than even the entire U.S. military had the manpower to check out.

He grabbed his gun, twirled it once around his finger, and aimed at the deer head protruding from the fake wood paneling across the room. Damn, he couldn’t wait to get to Keystone, Colorado.