Page 72 of Dangerous Passion

It made for a bad shot. A doable shot, of course. A .50 caliber bullet could go through the woman, through Drake and through the door behind them and the wall beyond that.

But he didn’t like the angle and the odds. He waited, patiently, observing them kissing, detached and cold.

OK. The woman was backingaway, holding Drake’s hand, leading him towards the center of the room, towards the large hearth. The intense heat from the fire distorted the picture. Drake’s body heat would be lost in the greater heat of the fire. Rutskoi had to shoot before Drake walked in front of it.

The woman’s heat signature disappeared as she moved in front of the fire, her hand outstretched, holding on to Drake’s. He was walking towards the fire, in profile.

Shit. The best shot would be frontal. Rutskoi had to make a split second decision. To aim for a profile requiring millimeter precision, dealing with the distorting effect of the thermal signature through a dense glass that could deflect the bullet, or to wait for Drake to turn and present a full frontal target.

Every ounce of training and experience saidwait.

Rutskoi lay, alert but not tense, focused but not overwhelmed, right leg slightly bent for stability, as was the Russian sniping style, and waited.

Drake had one hand on the hearth. Rutskoi remembered that hearth—a huge monolith of white and gray marble—just as he remembered everything about the room. He remembered the luxurious sofas covered with cashmere throw rugs, the deep carpets, the antiques. Drake lived like a prince. Goddammit, Rutskoi wanted to live like a prince, too.

Ah! Drake was turning, the woman was walking back towards him, carrying something. A glass. He was reaching out for it with one hand, the other still perched on the mantelpiece.

Turning, turning…

Yes!

Rutskoi took a breath, breathed half of it out, waited until he was between heartbeats, and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Fourteen

Drake was smiling at Grace, reaching for the glass of wine she held out to him, when she tripped on a rug. Instinctively, he moved fast to catch her before she fell.

And the world exploded.

He went down on his hands and knees, head hanging low, watching a slow dripping of something thick and red, not understanding what. Nothing moved, his vision dimmed, sound had deserted the world.

And then vision, hearing and understanding came back in a sick rush and he realized they were under attack.

Shards of marble were flying off the mantelpiece as bullets gouged enormous holes. One, two, three.

Someone was firing at where he’d been a second ago, firing .50 caliber bullets, judging from the size of the holes and the fact that they penetrated his bullet-resistant windows. If Grace hadn’t tripped, three .50 cals would have turned him into human hamburger in an instant.

Grace!

The shots kept coming, at a steady pace, set to single shot fire, shot by a man who knew what he was doing, but who couldn’t see what was happening.

Drake fast crawled to where Grace was crouching in front of the sofa and threw himself on top of her.

“Stay down!” he shouted, wishing he could somehow crush her down below the ground so she wouldn’t in any way be a target.

His movements were clumsy, slow. He wasn’t clumsy and he was fast. His slow reflexes told him he was concussed and he swore. He needed all his wits about him to get them out of here, but he could barely think.

“—invisible?” Grace said. She was still under him, head turned to take instructions from him, eyes wide with fear.

Another bullet smashed a large Ming vase. Drake curved over Grace, trying to shield her as much as he could, sharp shards piercing his back.

Drake shook his head, trying to say he didn’t understand her, but no words came out. He scanned the room, trying to figure a way to the door, but his vision was blurred and he saw double.

Another thunderous shot exploded above them, and another.

Whoever the sniper was, he’d have plenty of ammo. This was a planned hit.

Drake had to get them out of the room fast because sooner or later one of the bullets would strike its target. Even a shoulder or thigh shot from a .50 caliber bullet would prove fatal in seconds. There would be no way to staunch the blood—they’d simply bleed out fast.

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