Page 2 of Descent

I only care about my record. My reputation. And about securing a future for myself free of any control. The only way to do that is to be perfect. To become the head of my branch and pass my title on to another and disappear.

Shaking my head slightly, I refocus on the task at hand. My body protests my position, but I take a breath and center myself. Twelve hours without moving will make anyone a bit stiff.

That’s just what must be done to ensure I do not miss my chance.

My eyes twitch to my watch. Two p.m.

The target should be returning to their hotel room any moment.

“Circe.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s on her way up. Please get it done this time.”

“No promises,” I murmur, settling the stock of the rifle against my shoulder firmly.

“I hate you.”

“You’ll love me when we get a bonus for gathering additional intel about the ’Ndrangheta.”

My people have been trying to find out more about the elusive and mythical Italian organization for years. All we know so far is that they’re comprised of the wealthiest and most elite members of the criminal underworld. They have massive reach and control. We finally discovered one member: a woman whosefamily owns half the exports in and out of the Mediterranean. And someone hired us to kill her.

“Boring. You could have shot her the past three times she was in her room.”

“Hush, The past three times weren’t right.” Collateral. No good line of sight. It has to be perfect.

“You and your gut feelings. I’m on point for our next job.”

“No you’re not. You take too many risks.”

“Fuck you. I’m the better shot.”

“Which is why you are in the backup position and on watch in case I fuck this up.”

“You never do,” Arty grumbles and I hear her spit to the side.

“Gross. Your compliments sound like insults.”

“Your tone of voice is always an insult.”

“Mama said I have the voice of an angel. It’s your attitude that’s insulting.”

“Coming from the woman with the ultimate resting bitch face…Mark,” she snaps and we both quiet. The door to the hotel room eases open.

She’s mid-forties,maybeearly fifties. Regal. Tall. Beautiful in a bold, statuesque sort of way. Especially the way she stands, walks. Her shoulders thrust back, her chin high and steady. She is confident, powerful. I admire a woman in authority. Especially one who dresses as strikingly as my target does. She’s let the hint of silver at her temples remain, not bothering to dye the gray.

You go, queen.

Flaunt your experience. Own your style.

Even if you’ll only be around for a few more minutes. She slips off her coat, tossing it over the back of the sofa. Steps up to the window.

Security guards shift behind her, sweeping the suite. They’ll finish up and leave quickly. I don’t let them distract me.

Oo! I like that dress. Perfect for a funeral. Too bad she won’t be having an open casket.

Deadly silence sweeps through my thoughts, muting the inner dialog. My eyelid flinches, the lashes tickling against the scope of my sniper rifle.

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