Page 85 of Fast Vengeance

Montoya had no idea he wasn’t alone out here. Or that he had just walked through the crosshairs of a sniper rifle.

Stretched out in supported prone position, high up on the ridge overlooking the small valley and the rock formation that marked the location of Ruiz’s old hideout, Gabe tightened the focus on the sight of his weapon.

He and Colebrook were hidden behind a cluster of boulders camouflaged by clumps of sagebrush. Taggart was waiting a hundred yards down the slope behind them with the rest of the command staff, while the Mexican SF team moved into the valley on foot to take Montoya.

The goddamn evil and twisted excuse for a man who had betrayed Oceane, killed her mother, and almost killed Freeman’s fiancée, Rowan. Gabe’s orders were to provide recon and shoot Montoya if he tried to escape before the Mexican forces arrived. But Gabe was interpreting that last part loosely.

If he got a clear shot on Montoya period, the SF team’s assault wouldn’t be necessary.

Once again, Victoria had come through with an awesome piece of intel and they’d been able to make it here within hours of her showing them the location on a satellite map. Without her, Montoya might have slipped away and disappeared off the radar for good.

Lying prone beside Gabe, propped up on his elbows, Colebrook peered through his spotting scope. “He’s moving. Five-hundred-twenty yards.”

“Got him.” Gabe adjusted his aim, tracked Montoya’s movement through the high-powered scope. The cabin gave him just enough protection that Gabe didn’t have a clear shot, only the back of Montoya’s right arm and leg visible as he dug.

Gabe zeroed in on him and waited.

Waiting was his specialty. He could wait hours in this position without moving. Days, if necessary. This asshole had zero idea what was going on as he dug up what appeared to be a duffel full of what was no doubt cash, tossed it aside and moved a dozen paces to the right to dig again.

“Damn. How much cash you think they’ve got buried out here?” Colebrook murmured.

“Dunno.” Don’t care. One way or another, Montoya wasn’t walking out of here tonight.

His target was currently more than five football field lengths away but Gabe had made shots at more than twice that distance. The angle was perfect. The air was dry and the wind light. All he needed was for Montoya to move a couple more steps to his right.

“SF team’s in position at the south end of the valley,” Colebrook murmured.

Gabe noted it but didn’t respond, all his attention on the crosshairs of his rifle as he cradled the buttstock snug against his shoulder.

Montoya took a step to his right.

Gabe’s breathing was slow and steady, his heart rate calm, finger curled around the trigger. He blocked out all thoughts of Oceane and his hatred for the piece of shit in his crosshairs, pretended this was just like every other target, even though it wasn’t.

Montoya took another step to the right. He bent to adjust something on the shovel, then turned and began carrying one of the bags back toward the rock formation where he’d parked his vehicle. One might even argue he was about to make his escape.

It was goddamn perfect.

“Be advised, target is moving back toward vehicle,” Colebrook said over their comms.

“Copy that,” Taggart replied, then added, “He doesn’t leave here.”

Oh, he won’t. Gabe remained locked on his unsuspecting target, mentally coaxing him along. One more step. Just take one more step for me.

Montoya did.

He straightened and turned slightly, unknowingly facing Gabe. Giving him a full center mass target.

Gabe adjusted his aim ever so slightly. Exhaled, letting the air out of his lungs. And then he squeezed the trigger.

The rifle’s report echoed throughout the desolate landscape an instant before the bullet found its mark. Montoya jerked and collapsed to the ground as it tore through his body. Hitting him in the lower part of his thoracic spine rather than through the heart or lungs.

“Hit, lower center mass,” Colebrook said.

Gabe paused only long enough to watch Montoya flop painfully to his belly and begin dragging himself across the ground toward cover, his paralyzed legs trailing behind him.

Colebrook immediately began issuing adjustments for another shot.

Gabe wouldn’t be taking one.

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