Page 99 of Chalk Outline

The slung rifle over my back sways as I shift from side to side, ramming my shoulder against an old wooden door that swings open.

This was an old asylum owned by a private businessman. After it was shut down, he added several buildings to convert it into an industrial warehouse that eventually went bankrupt and found a place in the trafficking world.

The man who owns it today is Third Eye. The team I infiltrated a week ago, pretending to be a sniper they hired for the job, has a large shipment they bragged about for days.

I got clear instructions: kill the operating teams once the transaction is made; no loose ties, no witnesses.

Finally.

I waited a long time to get to these fuckers after my team and I spent the beginning of the year in Tokyo, Italy, Romania, and Brazil.

The place is abandoned, yet private property signs pop up everywhere, and cameras are installed around the wrought-iron fence to prevent unwanted visitors from sneaking in.

“You started killing them early,” Braxton’s amused tone graces my ears. He watches everything from the camera that’s attached to my vest.

I pant out, “Who said I play fair? All it took was a threat, and they saw their money slipping away.”

The voices behind me grow closer as I run across the roof, jumping from one to another, when I notice a shadow to my left. I halt abruptly and spin to shove him off the roof before kicking the guy next to him to his death, too.

They howl all the way down.

“The balance of the universe hangs on a scale, and I’m doing my bidding, so consider us even.” My words quickly dissolve when a blade slices across my cheek, and I hiss at the subtle sting it leaves behind. “Watch it. I have someone who loves this face.”

My hands shoot forward to block his punch before I twist his wrist and shoot him with my suppressor. In quick succession, I fire and kill the remaining two in a row as they show up. The bullets pierce their skulls, and they drop down before the guy who cut my cheek rolls off the roof.

I run to a juncture between two buildings with a privacy wall, lower than the rest, and perfect for propping my rifle on. This spot is directly in front of the parking lot, which spreads across the center of the property.

I observe the vehicles and the fifteen people on-site waiting for more to arrive.

The buildings are arranged in a C-shape, with stone paths and overgrown vegetation surrounding them.

“So, I put a microphone in Devon’s jacket when I went to the coffee shop earlier,” Braxton says. “You were right. He never misses a day without their coffee. We’ll be able to hear what they say in a second.”

I rest my rifle, set it up, and scan the team through the scope.

On most days, they deal with drugs, but they also kidnap kids to please their bosses and get a bigger cut. The more they contribute, the larger their paycheck. These fools don’t realize that the more they involve themselves, the shorter their lifespan.

The vicious grins on their faces belong to killers, rapists, drug dealers, child molesters, and the list goes on.

“I have something to tell you.” Braxton pauses. “When I saw Devon at the coffee shop, he had a photo of your wife on his phone. He then got a call from someone, and said her price tag will earn the boss’s respect.”

The muscle in my jaw tics as I crack my neck. “He earned himself a bullet to the head,” I reply, waiting for him to switch the audio and connect me to Devon’s microphone.

“Yo, dude, we got new merchandise. What are you doing?” Devon, the frail, jittery dealer in this crew, says as he paces back and forth beside Mitch. His dark blonde hair sweeps across his shoulders while he nervously chews on his bottom lip. He is clearly unfit for this “lifestyle.”

He’s a liability, and he wants to kill my wife—what a joke.

Mitch flicks his eyes away from the cigarette and looks at him, appearing increasingly nonchalant. “Smoking.”

I almost chuckle at his answer.

“This dude,” Devon chuckles uncomfortably, shaking his head from side to side, sending a rush through my system. I like it when they feel uncomfortable. It alters my brain chemistry.

“Chill. You make everyone suspicious.” Mitch juts his chin toward the other dealers behind him, who watch them with pointed looks, their hands brushing against the guns in their holsters. But Rick, the head of the crew, is the one I don’t trust at all with his shifty eyes and evil smirk.

With a brief glance, Devon says, “Yeah, you’re right.” Resting his hands on his hips, he leans against the semi-truck beside Mitch.

That guy will ruin everything I’m trying to build if he keeps acting like he has something to hide. After all, we’re collateral damage.