Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
So when we get into the banker’s compound and quietly eliminate the exact number of guards we planned for, I begin to feel uneasy. And when we hijack all the cameras, giving Yan remote access, and make our way to the banker’s bedroom suite without encountering a single staff member deviating from his or her routine, my danger meter goes on high alert—and I’m not the only one.
“You smell it, right?” Anton mutters as we stop in front of the bedroom door.
“Smell what?” Ilya whispers, sniffing the air with a frown.
“The shit about to hit the fan,” I say in a low voice. “It’s too easy. Too much like what we planned.”
Comprehension lights Ilya’s gaze. “Fuck.”
None of us are superstitious, but we have a healthy respect for luck, and we all know that too much good luck can be just as deadly as an unlucky streak. A steady stream of small obstacles keeps one’s mind and reflexes sharp, while smooth sailing lures one into complacency. Not that we’re ever relaxed on a job—the adrenaline rush ensures we stay alert—but there’s a difference between regular battle alertness and the hyperawareness that comes along with fighting for our lives.
This job has been smooth sailing so far, and when we hit a rough patch—which we will, because luck is a fickle bitch—it’s going to suck extra hard.
There’s nothing we can do about it, though, short of aborting the mission, so I gesture to Anton to get ready, and Ilya steps in front of the door.
One hard kick from his massive foot, and the door flies off its hinges, crashing to the floor. Inside, there is a panicked squeal, and as the three of us rush into the room, we see our target on the floor, his fat folds jiggling while his naked mistress cowers behind the bed.
The banker’s tiny, pig-like eyes are white with terror, his round frame shaking as he scrambles to cover his deflating cock with a pillow. “Stop! Please, I can pay you. I swear, I can pay you. I’ll top whatever they’re paying you. What do you want? A hundred thousand euros? Half a million dollars? I have it. I have the money, I swear!” Seeing that we’re not stopping, he switches from English to an accented mixture of French and German, and then a Hausa dialect, frantically repeating the offer until Anton stabs him in the throat to shut him up.
“Omuya’s cousin sends his regards,” I say in English, watching the man flail about as he chokes on the blood spurting out of his neck. It takes mere moments for him to die—an easy death, all things considered.
The asshole’s mistress breaks into violent sobs behind the bed. Ignoring the noise, I snap a picture of the body as proof for the client, and then tell Ilya in Russian, “Tie her up and let’s go.” Normally, we’d eliminate the woman too, but I want a witness this time.
I want the authorities searching for us in Africa, far away from Sara and Japan.
Slinging the strap of his M16 over his shoulder, Ilya rounds the bed and reaches for the crying woman. Figuring he can handle it, I head for the door, my shit storm instincts still on high alert.
Suddenly, a shot rings out.
I spin around, my ears ringing from the blast, but it’s too late.
Ilya is on the floor, a dark red stain spreading out from his head.
27
Sara
I pace around the second floor, going from room to room as I battle my anxiety. The moment the team landed, Yan told me to leave him alone so he could focus on doing his part: monitoring the banker’s compound remotely in case of unexpected problems. And he wasn’t just trying to get rid of me. As I left the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of several security camera feeds on his computer screen, and what appeared to be a view from an aerial drone.
To distract myself, I tried to read again, then watched some music videos, singing along with some of my favorite artists. I even went to the unfinished dance studio and attempted a couple of ballet routines I learned as a child, along with some stretching at the barre to ease the period-induced tightness in my lower back. None of it held my attention for longer than fifteen minutes, so now I’m mindlessly going from window to window, as if by staring at the darkness outside, I can make the helicopter appear.
After about two hours, my cramps worsen and I’m a raw mess of nerves, so I go down to the kitchen to take more Advil. Yan is still sitting behind the counter with his computer, the headphones covering his ears, but there’s nothing cool about his expression now. He’s starkly pale, and lines of tension bracket his tight-lipped mouth as he speaks urgently into the microphone in Russian.