Chapter 25

I SAT AT THE Internet café waiting. Anger coursed though me; anger at myself for letting them grab Callie. It mixed with a fear I’d never experienced, almost but not quite paralyzing me. I hated it. Fear clouded my clarity. It could make me hesitate at a critical moment, and Callie’s life was at risk.

I’d failed. Grand plans had been overly optimistic. I’d been naïve. I’d let myself relax and actually enjoy myself. I’d been unprofessional in the extreme and Callie was paying the price for my mistake. Fuck! What an idiot!

I replayed the conversation with Lucas Smith. Something he’d said bothered me. It took a while before I got it. He’d asked for the microdot and two memory sticks. Two!

Pride rushed through me. Trust Callie, the hardheaded, opinionated, stubborn girl that she was, to lie convincingly! Maybe there was hope. I had three.

An email icon flashed, drawing my attention to the monitor. I clicked on the email and opened the attachment.

Everything changed. Everything!

Sounds around me faded to be replaced by roaring in my ears. Hot rage, like acidic lava, boiled up inside me, choking me.

Callie, hands bound behind her back, looked stricken, her pale blue eyes awash in fear. Her hair was disheveled. But, what made me want to throw the monitor across the room, was the split lip, the bloody contusion on her right temple, and the ugly purple bruise on her left cheek. She’d been beaten!!

Fuck! FUUUUCK!

This changed everything. Someone was going to pay!

An icy calm descended. Someone was going to pay with their life for harming her. Tonight.

Deleting the photo from the temporary email account - it was burned into my memory forever - I left the café, returned to the damaged Mercedes, and checked my supplies. After losing Callie earlier today, I’d returned to the cabin. In the basement, I’d opened a gun safe and made my selections. One of those selections was going to see some action tonight, even if it was overkill.

Unwrapping it, I checked it over. The Accuracy International L115A3 AWM sniper rifle is British made and considered by many to be one of the finest in the world. This one, chambered for the .338 Lapua Magnum round, gave it a range of over fifteen hundred yards, and when it hit, it destroyed with brutal force. Combined with the night optic sight, it was one of the deadliest guns in the world.

I hadn’t lied to Callie when I told her I was useless with a pistol. I was. But sniper rifles require completely different skills; utter calm, keen eyesight, an understanding of atmospheric conditions, and knowledge of trajectories, distances, terrain. I grew up with rifles shooting rabbits and snakes. I was very, very good with a rifle and Lucas Smith was going to find out tonight.

At nine-thirty I was in position, ready. Through the scope, I could observe the parking lot and the cemetery. I waited. I couldn’t shake the picture of her. It haunted me and blamed me mercilessly. I’d brought it down on her and I couldn’t forgive myself.

Time passed slowly and painfully. Darkness fell. At ten-thirty, headlights appeared. I tracked the black Suburban. It parked, engine running. Headlights winked off.

Through the scope I saw two occupants in the front seats, neither of them Lucas Smith.

The passenger door opened. A heavily muscled man stepped out and opened the back door. Reaching in, he manhandled Callie out. She stumbled, falling to one knee and he hauled her up carelessly by the arm. I noticed plastic cuffs binding her wrists, her hair in disarray. Fury threatened to overwhelm me. Breathing deeply, I found calm, icy calm.

Moving my aim, I checked the driver, then swung back to the muscle. Less than two inches movement from this distance. One second.

Concentrating - there was no room for error - my heart rate slowed. Hands stilled. Body relaxed. Rifle butt snug to my shoulder, I aimed at the driver, stopped breathing, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The shot was loud, echoing across the cemetery, the rifle butt shoving back at me. The Suburban’s windscreen cracked like a spider web around a hole. Without breathing, before the second man could react, in under a second, a second shot exploded. Through the optic scope I watched the muscled man’s head explode like a ripe watermelon, the kinetic force of the .338 Lapua Magnum physically tossing his body backwards.

I didn’t check the driver. I knew he was dead. Scrambling up, I ran towards the Suburban carrying the rifle and fishing in my pocket for a Swiss army knife. Callie stood stock still. As I neared, I saw her face, as white as a sheet, her eyes vacant in shock. She didn’t register my presence until I grabbed her ice cold hand, cut the plastic cuff, and forced her to run. She stumbled after me.

Two minutes later I tossed the rifle into the back seat of the Mercedes and physically lifted Callie into the front passenger seat, attaching the seatbelt around her. She stared at nothing; no expression, no recognition. Hunting through the glove compartment, I found an old chocolate bar, Snickers, tore the wrapper open and put it in her cold hand.

“Eat this,” I demanded a bit harshly from concern, closing her door. A minute later, we were off.

It was late. The roads were clear. We made good time. Callie nibbled at the chocolate bar like a robot and I began to worry she was in more than shock. I might have traumatized her with my anger driven action.