Page 91 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"Wind shift, eight miles northwest," I murmur, adjusting my rifle position on the rain-slicked rooftop. "Target building still visible despite fog."
From our position six stories up, I have a perfect sight line into the compound. Four hours in this position has melded the rifle to my body, an extension of will rather than metal and polymer. Rain beads on the scope shield, requiring constant maintenance.
The tactical tarp stretched above us provides minimal shelter as the storm intensifies. Fog swirls between buildings, occasionally concealing our target before revealing it again in ghostly waves.
If I need to take a shot, the wind drift would push about 1.2 inches at this distance. Not ideal, but I've made harder shots.
"Third black Suburban approaching," I report into my comm. "Same driver as previous two."
Vanessa's typing creates a rhythm behind me; a sound I've found oddly comforting rather than distracting. Her presencewarms the space between us, a heat signature I track as automatically as wind patterns.
"Got it," Jax confirms through comms. "Ready to follow targets."
My breathing maintains the six-count pattern ingrained through thousands of operations. Finger resting beside, not on, the trigger guard.
The rain intensifies, pattering against the tactical tarp covering us. Water beads on my jacket sleeve, rolling down to collect at my elbow.
"Fuck this weather," Vanessa mutters. Her typing quickens. "The atmospheric interference is screwing with my signal strength."
I don't respond, keeping my eye pressed to the scope as the SUV parks. Two women exit, escorted by a man in an expensive suit. Something about their movements feels programmed, shoulders slumped, eyes down.
Vanessa scoots closer, her thigh brushing against my hip. My heart skips a beat for a fraction of a second before I force it back to baseline.
Unacceptable. Eighteen hours under the scorching desert sun, and my concentration hasn't faltered once. Not even a twitch. A woman's proximity shouldn't affect me.
But she does.
"Movement at the east entrance," I report clinically, redirecting my attention back to where it belongs. "One man, two women. One woman appears resistant."
"Visual confirmed," Jax responds. "Ready to intercept if directed."
Vanessa leans over my shoulder, her coconut-vanilla scent cutting through the wet concrete smell of the rooftop. "Let me get a facial capture."
The closeness of her body creates an unwanted warmth that threatens my concentration. I compensate by slowing my breathing further, recalculating wind variables.
"Shit." The frustration in Vanessa's voice pulls at my attention. "Signal dropped. The fog and rain are blocking transmission."
She pushes up from her kneeling position, moving toward the edge of the roof with her equipment. Her pink-streaked hair whips in the increasing wind as she holds the antenna higher.
"Stay back from the edge," I snap, harder than intended. "Two-foot perimeter, Vanessa. That's all you need." The thought of her exposed position sends an unexpected spike of adrenaline through my system.
"Two-foot perimeter," I repeat, forcing my voice to remain level. "That's not negotiable."
Vanessa rolls her eyes, backing up exactly one foot. "If I'm going to get a usable signal through this weather, I need height and clearance."
The rain hammers harder against the tarp, creating a percussion of white noise that would be soothing under different circumstances. Water pools around me, then seeping across the rooftop surface.
"Target's security detail is changing shifts," I report, tracking movement through my scope. "Two men at the main entrance, rotating clockwise."
"Copy that," Jax responds through comms. "I've got eyes on the parking structure exit."
Vanessa ignores both of us, extending her antenna higher while edging another six inches toward the unsecured section of roof. Wind gusts at approximately fifteen miles per hour now, strong enough to affect her balance. The wet concrete beneath her sneakers gleams dangerously.
My heart rate ticks up. Unacceptable physical response. I force my breathing to remain steady.
"Move back," I order without looking away from my scope. Six stories below, concrete and metal dumpsters wait. Fatal impact at minimum.
"Almost got it," she mutters, stretching further while balancing her laptop against her hip. "The interference pattern is shifting with the storm front."
