Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I blink a few times, and Victor’s standing before me, cracking the tension in his neck while smoothing the lapel of his suit.
“What was he—”
“I’ve no idea what rubbish the tosser was spouting.”
“Do you?”
“Listen.” Victor descends on me, and I feel tiny and helpless beneath his imposing height. A sinful fire blazes into indigo. His eyes will forever draw me in. “Today’s about you and me, Luxury. Fuck everyone else, yeah?”
35
Victor
Hands gripping the side of the heated indoor pool, I lift myself up and out of the warm water. Muscles scream from the hundred fucking laps I just did.
I tell myself I’d not deceived Luxury yesterday evening.
The paparazzi wanker, tossed out on his fucking ear, could’ve wanted to discuss a myriad of topics—
Overton.
Emeli
Or . . .
Either way, he aimed to get a rise out of me. Luxury hadn’t relaxed until we took a helicopter ride over the Eiffel Tower. By dinner, my Little One had returned. By dessert, she was screaming my bloody name with such fierceness that it’s a surprise the windows didn’t burst.
I grab a towel and glare at Graham. The bloke’s still in pajama pants. A dusting of hair covers a chest that’s confused as to whether it should be scrawny or muscular, as both bone and muscle bloody protrude.
“Bravo, big brother, you’ve gotten in your morning exercise as have I.” Graham scoops up a spoonful of beans.
“Instead of coming home with a new ‘fiancée’ each time that tiny brain of yours considers England, you should take better care of yourself.”
“Tsk. I just said this is my workout.” He lifts a fork of sliced tomatoes like one would a dumbbell. “Moreover, the chef makes sure I get my veggies. These grilled mushrooms and the kippers, I’m delighted.” He stops to pick up my ringing phone. “Monica—oh, the manly chap?”
I seize my mobile from his hands as he chuckles.
“What?”
“Jackson Redfield has been spotted by our liaison at the airport.”
“As of when?” My demeanor stiffens.
Graham’s smile fades. “What’s going on, brother?”
I look away from him and stroll toward the opposite side of the large room.
“ETA was . . . a few hours ago.”
I hang up at that and look back to Graham. “Where are the girls?”
“Outside for a brisk walk before the rain.”
“We must find them, now.”
Jackson Redfield, African American, forty-two, five foot nine even. One of the most sought X-Member assassins. He set the bar. One day, I determined that I’d be the fucking bar. By the time I was thirty, I had switched over from combat to sniper specialist. At thirty-one, I ascended the ladder.
At thirty-two, Jackson took notice of me, sending an untraceable email. “Stop.” That single word indicated that Jackson saw me as a potential threat. I reveled in that.
My next move was for Jackson’s assignment. As soon as the X-Member status updated, I had Burt secure passage to Moscow. I’d studied the mark for countless days, a Russian pakhan, Ivonkof, owned various nightclubs around the area.
It was a dark, snowy night. The 360 view on the top floor of the club was Ivonkof’s office. As I began to set up my sniper equipment, my eye caught a flash of light from across the way. The moon glinted off a circular reflection that had to be another sniper rifle’s scope.
Jackson.
My silenced sniper rifle quickly searched for our victim.
Boosh. Bits of cement from the edge of the building holding up my post crashed hundreds of feet to the ground. Boosh.
Jackson fired another shot right before I ducked down.
“Bloody hell.” I quickly pulled out my handgun, unleashed the magazine, locked in a new one, and applied a suppressor.
Fuck it. If I die, I’ll see Emeli. I considered peeking out. The bastard had me at a disadvantage. I let off a few warning shots in his direction. I dropped back down to my stomach and prepared myself for Ivonkof.
Jackson didn’t want to kill me.
No, the bloody bastard gave a sign that he knew I had tried to filch his mark.
Well, we were in a fucking pickle, weren’t we?
“Let the best motherfucker win,” I muttered, searching out Ivonkof. The pakhan sauntered into the room with a fleet of his men surrounding him. Jackson was on the north side of the building, getting a better angle since I was on the south. Taking a quick breath, I steadied myself and took the shot.
* * *
After that day, Jackson and I competed for various assignments. The bloke and I were never friends. I saw him murder assassins who got too close to his hit, and by way of murder, the arsehole used one bullet to do them both in.
We became equals. Silently taking turns, bowing out with the understanding that this hit or that target might be a better mission for the other. The chap and I shared an unspoken brotherhood of mutual respect.