The cabin is at the end of a long, private road, and if you didn’t already know it was there, you’d never be able to find it on your own. It has been in the Caldwell family for generations, and it’s more than just a cabin. It looks like a fucking ranch, much bigger than the official paperwork suggests. This property has been recently renovated, and something tells me that these changes aren’t exactly legal.
Shaking my head, I cut the engine of my Audi and grab the case beneath the passenger seat before pushing out of my car. I start walking through the mountainside, cutting through thick pine trees until I have the perfect view of the property in the valley below.
Caldwell’s black Mercedes is parked directly in front of the cabin, and I almost laugh at how easy this is going to be. How fucking densecan one man be? He’s come out here to hide but makes himself as openly obvious as possible. The least he could do is hide the Mercedes in the thick bush beside the cabin.
The majority of these LA businessmen believe they’re untouchable. They’ve become so accustomed to the power their money gives, obsessed with their public image, that when it all goes to shit, not a damn one of them knows how to protect themselves, and this right here is the perfect example.
Grant Caldwell will be dead within the next three minutes. There’s no doubt about it.
Finding a low, flat rock, I place my case down and unpack my rifle, quickly setting it up and recalibrating it to make sure it’s perfectly aligned after transport. I don’t fuck with my accuracy.
Once the rifle is good to go, I settle in flat against the dirt, my hands casually falling into place on the rifle. With one eye trained through the scope, I take in the cabin below to make sure Caldwell is alone.
I watch for any movements through the windows, scanning room to room, starting with the most common areas. Kitchen, living, and dining, before moving to the many bedrooms. I come up blank before the slightest movement in the office window makes me pause.
I only see the sleeve of his arm, and I have to take a moment to reposition myself to ensure a clean hit, and sure enough, there he is, sitting at a desk, grasping a bottle of rum by the neck and throwing it back as though he already knows he’s about to die.
My finger curls around the trigger, and just like that, a body steps directly into my view from outside the cabin, a smug grin staring back at me through my scope.
Kiara St. James.
My finger pulls away from the trigger, unable to take my shot with her directly in the path, and I watch in disbelief as she holds up her hand in a salute, only for it to quickly morph into giving me the finger.
I scoff and shake my head before pulling my phone out of my pocket and immediately dialing her number.
She answers in seconds. “Just take a slight step to your left, Firecracker. I wouldn’t want to miss.”
“Is that something you do often?” she asks, her voice low.
“Not at all,” I say, wanting to finish this. “Left, Firecracker. Now.”
“I don’t recall giving you this number.”
“You didn’t,” I say, hating how fucking thrilling I find hearing her voice, especially right now in this situation. “What can I say? I’m resourceful. But had I waited for you to give it to me, imagine all this fun we would have missed out on.”
She scoffs, and I watch as she takes a blade from the holster strapped to her thigh, tossing it into the air and catching it with ease. Then, the second the handle hits her capable hand, she whips around and rears back, launching the blade with such power that it blasts straight through the glass window of the cabin and directly through the center of Grant Caldwell’s throat.
Well, fuck me. That was equally the most frustrating and sexiestthing I have ever seen.
Kiara turns back, a wicked grin on her face, and as if stealing yet another kill out from under me wasn’t enough, she then drops down into an exaggerated curtsy, as though I should be applauding her for allowing me the grand opportunity to witness the master at work.
Then, adding salt to the wound, she takes an exaggerated step to the left. “Go ahead,” she coos, the call still connected. “Take your shot.”
I pull the fucking trigger.
The shot rings out through the early morning fog surrounding the mountains, and I keep my eye trained on Kiara as the bullet plunges deep into the tree trunk directly beside her head, bits of wood ricocheting around her face.
She yelps in shock as her jaw drops, absolutely horrified that I’d even dare shoot so close to her, but truth be told, I’m the sharpest shooter in the country. Nobody is better than me, and while that bullet landed barely a foot away from her stunning face, it’s not a shot I’d consider even a little bit close. In comparison to how precisely I shoot, that bullet lodged in that tree might as well have been a mile away.
“You . . . Holy fuck. You shot at me!”
“You told me to take my shot, Firecracker. What’s the matter? Can’t handle the heat? It wasn’t even close. I didn’t even skim a few hairs off the top.”
She grunts in frustration, but this is different from the usual Kiara blow-up. She’s truly pissed, and not a moment later, she ends the calland darts deep into the bushes. I track her movements as best I can, but she’s fast, and the trees quickly become too thick to see through from this angle.
The further she gets, the faster reality dawns on me.
Kiara St. James just got the best of me. Again.
