Page 109 of Arranged Obsession
But it won’t be because of me.
I’ll do what I can and stick to my morals.
My husband can stick to his.
Chapter 36
Cormac
Istare through the sight of my rifle down toward the trucking yard. It’s late, and the place should be closed for the night, but there are still half a dozen men lurking about.
None of them look like they work there.
“How’s your sightline?” Seamus’s voice crackles in my ear.
I lightly press the earpiece. “Clear as day.”
“We’ve got eyes on the truck. It’s about five minutes from your position.”
“Good. I’m ready.”
“You know, we should’ve started working together sooner.” I can hear the grin in Seamus’s voice. “This is kind of fun.”
I smile to myself and don’t respond. But he’s right.
Nothing better than an ambush with a high-powered sniper rifle on a quiet weekday evening.
I don’t have long to wait. I’m in a cramped position lying on top of a building at an angle to the yard down below. It took some tricky climbing to get up here, but it’s the perfect position.
My fingers itch to pull the trigger. I could take down the waiting guards in seconds if I wanted. But that’s not the plan, and I’m not working alone.
It’s strange. For so long, I called the shots, and I liked it that way. But it’s nice to be a part of a team for once.
“Incoming,” Seamus’s voice says, and I spot the headlights of the truck as it pulls around the corner and stops outside the fence.
The guards hurry to get it open. I can’t hear them and can only just feel the rumble of the truck’s engine as it slowly rolls into the yard. There are more men in the cab, and even more come out from the building. I count twenty in all. Those are serious numbers.
But we came prepared.
“They’re starting to unload,” I say to Seamus, watching through the scope. “Small arms. Mostly pistols. I’m not seeing armor.”
“Perfect. Should be easy. How’s the cargo?”
“Hard to say. The boxes are marked like they’re smart TVs.”
Seamus laughs, clearly amused. “Definitely nobody’s watchingGame of Throneson that shit. You tell me when it’s go time.”
“You’ll know. Move on my signal.”
“What’s the signal?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I find the foreman of the group. He’s a big guy, bald head. A mid-level enforcer in the Bratva, a man Ivaguely recognize. He keeps shouting and gesturing, getting the unloading process organized. I wait until they have a couple of boxes out, just getting started, and squeeze the trigger.
My rifle bucks. The foreman’s head explodes into a shower of pink mist.
I cock the rifle and aim again. The other Russians haven’t even reacted yet. They’re staring in horror. I aim for another, going at random now, and another man evaporates as my high-caliber bullet explodes his skull into a paste of blood and meat.
“Guess it’s time,” Seamus says in my ear.
