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DEAD TO ME

It was in a sniper’s nature to prefer long-distance shots.

The farther away, the better. Less chance of getting caught was preferable to the high risks associated with kills over a short distance. But that meant I was pouting at having to go as close as the neighbor’s yard to Senator John McClure’s mansion in Kentucky.

His neighbors had kindly constructed a treehouse for their child and because they were ridiculously rich, it was better appointed than my loft in Manhattan.

I peered out of Cooper’s scope and watched the senator and his wife as they ate their meal together, much as they’d done for each of the two nights I’d been staking out their home.

Dinner at eight PM.

A glass of wine for her and a brandy for him in front of the fire as they both read the day’s papers at a quarter to nine until ten PM.

Then she’d toddle off to bed and he’d veer toward the porch where he’d smoke a cigar from ten until ten-thirty.

The audacity of men never ceased to boggle my mind, and when I thought of what he kept beneath his property, it became more than just audacious. It was proof of how untouchable the asswipe thought he was.

Tucked below the thousands of square feet of marble that had been funded by a great-great-great granddaddy who didn’t believe in the abolition of slavery was a basement.

A basement I’d seen him sneak down to once during my time here.

Security roamed the land, and armed cops manned the gates to his mansion, but the man had a sex slave in his basement.

Yes, audacious was one word for a man like that.

But those types of people were the very best marks.

It was always satisfying to cut someone down whose arrogance made them think they were above reproach.

No one was above the reproach of my bullet.

I smiled at the thought then sighed when, deep in my ears, Siri started playing a voice note to me.

“Lucinda, I think Star might be in danger.”

Inwardly grumbling at the sound of my irritating cousin’s voice, I replied: “Star’s always in danger. It’s what she does best.”

She answered: “More than usual.”

I huffed under my breath, still pissed at Star for getting me involved with that shitshow back in Russia.

One thing I had to say about Maxim Lyanov was he had a surprising ability to plan a siege.

Sure, that siege had gone badly awry, but he’d orchestrated it with more talent than some of the COs I’d worked with who sported four stars on their shoulders.

It wasn’t his fault that the blueprints for Petrovsky Palace were wrong, not when those blueprints had been fudged to ensure that a siege would never be successful. Whoever owned the palace believed they were above the law, that was for sure.

Still, as mad as I was at her, I couldn’t leave my girl in a lurch if she really was up shit creek without a paddle.

Not willing to mess around with voice messages, I called Temper and greeted, “Star is usually good at getting herself out of trouble.”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Munoz’s sniffing around.”

“That jackass.” I snorted. “He couldn’t shoot himself in the foot, never mind get the run on Star.” Wherever Star was.

I still hadn’t managed to work out if she’d gone deep undercover and that was why she was radio silent or if she had been taken as Lyanov claimed.

‘Taken’ had many connotations for people in our line of work.

A mobster had a more one-track mind—taken, to him, meant being held under duress.

To us, it could mean absorption into the ranks of a faction you were trying to infiltrate.

“I’m telling you this time it’s different,” Temperance repeated, breaking into my thoughts.

“You keep saying that and it’s tedious if you can’t tell me why.”

“Why are you whispering?” She hesitated. “In fact, don’t answer that.”

I smirked at nothing as I watched Senator McClure eat his final meal.

“Where is she?” I grumbled.

“Croatia.”

“Croatia? What the fuck is she doing there?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Don’t you know everything, Temperance?” I asked sweetly, knowing it would grind her gears.

“Are you going to help her or not?”

“I need more to go on than a country. It’s a pretty big place.”

“Dubrovnik. I can send you a trace on Munoz’s phone if that’ll help?”

“Of course, it will.” I rolled my eyes. “I should be done here tonight. I’ll be able to head out in a few days.” Once I’d collected payment from the O’Donnellys, I was free and clear to do whatever I wanted for a short time. “Since when are you worried about Star, anyway?”

“Since she got me involved in this Sparrows’ shit show then—” She cleared her throat. “—went quiet.”

I narrowed my eyes at that odd pause. “Do you know where she is? Is Munoz holding her hostage? Is that what’s going on?”

“I-I don’t know.”

That soft hesitation had me asking, “That bad?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll head out ASAP.”

“Let me know when you’ve dealt with the situation?”

“As if I wouldn’t keep you in the loop, cousin dear,” I drawled before I cut the call.

Temperance was one of those people who kept her hands clean by assigning the dirty jobs to others. Her self-righteousness irked me like little else could.

Huffing and puffing my annoyance at her stopped me from fretting about Star and Temper’s odd belief that she was in danger as I observed the McClures’ evening entertainments.

The clock ticked slower than ever as I watched them like they were a TV show until, finally, Mrs. McClure—who didn’t appear to be in the know about her husband’s dungeon—kissed the senator’s cheek and made her way to bed.

If she knew, I’d assume that she’d never kiss that scrawny cheek without being under the threat of death.

I smiled as, like clockwork, McClure checked to make sure she’d gone upstairs then sneaked over to the bookshelf that housed a secret compartment. From it, he withdrew a Cuban— tut tut for the contraband —clipped the cap, tucked the waste into his pocket then, after packing the items away, locked the compartment. He pulled a lighter from another drawer and then retreated outside where he tossed the cap into the yard.

With a deep sigh, he started puffing on the cigar. When his head was bowed over, the gleaming flame lighting up his face in my scope, I smiled.

Stroked the trigger.

And gently squeezed.

Blood blossomed on his shirt as his body jerked in response to the high-velocity round.

Within seconds, he was slumped on the ground, the cigar no longer in his hand but tossed aside as the hollow bullet I’d chosen to cause him maximum damage, and hopefully the most agony before he died, got to work.

A puddle appeared beneath him as he bled out, and all the while, I packed up Coop and retreated.

Senator McClure was officially Dead To Me.