Page 9 of Ship Outta Luck

Damn analysts, always hedging their assessments. But the cube jockeysjustso happen to be right this time. And not because there are worse-looking targets to surveil.

Legarde’s key ring flashes in the sunlight as she dumps it in Charlie’s outstretched hand.

“I don’t like this.” I move to get up.

Charlie piles into the driver’s seat of Legarde’s beat-up truck.

“I checked the work-up on the blonde myself,” Pierce says. “I think she’s clean.”

A rangy blond man, dressed in black, moves out of the bushes. Directly behind the target.

“Son of a bitch,” I murmur. “Russians are here.”

“Gun.” Pierce points like I don’t see the man with a gun.

With lightning speed, I replace the nocks with the long-range scope of my rifle.

“You know we’re not cleared for wet work,” Pierce says lazily.

“Fuck me sideways.” Legarde is our only lead. “We have got to get down there. Call it in.” I line the man up in my scope. “Now.”

The man approaches the vehicle, raising his gun, and I suck in a breath, holding it, steadying the shot.

The truck roars to life, plowing the gunman down.

Good job, Charlie.

“Oh shit.” Pierce sounds genuinely shocked. “The blonde mowed him down.”

My eyes narrow, waiting for the gunman to try again as the two women go to his side… but he gets up and runs, well, limps away.

What the hell? Did Charlie say something? Did she blow her cover? Fuck. Fuck!

“She just ran him over,” Pierce repeats, clearly confused.

Lowering my rifle, I turn to face him.

“I ran the check on her myself.” Pierce wipes a hand over his sweaty face, standing and collecting the fallen equipment. “She’s a civilian.”

“Hmmph.” I grunt, hefting the rifle, following Pierce to the ladder leading from the roof.

No matter how much Ishouldwant to trust Pierce, I don’t.

I learned the hard way that sometimes it’s better to keep my mouth shut.

CHAPTER

THREE

JUNE

Monotonous landscape fliespast the window, green-brown marsh grass and low, scrubby trees.

It should soothe me. Familiar. Home.

It does not.

My eyes dart from Charlie’s thin-lipped expression to the road and back again, fingers tightening around the pebbled plastic handle in the ceiling.

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