Her missions were always on a need-to-know basis, which meant no more than three people knew where she was. Topping that list was Z. While she didnottake orders from her dad, she followed Z’s instruction to the letter.
At the edge of the rooftop, she lifted out the rifle and tripod. Before setting it up, she turned her attention to the building across the street. A rough calculation put her targets at fifty yards away.
I got this.
Using her night goggles, she homed in on her targets through one of the first-floor windows. Three men sat around a table, illuminated by the flashlights on their phones. After studying each of them, she confirmed these were her marks.
While snipers worked in tandem with a spotter, Brit worked alone. Fortunately for her, she got no pushback from Z.
She set up the tripod, attached the long gun. After moving into place on the cold rooftop, she concluded that using the tripod would slow her down. She removed it, repositioned herself, and shouldered the weapon. She had to work fast, picking them off in seconds.
There were so many things that could go wrong. A total miss. A hit, but not a kill. Or she wasn’t fast enough, allowing one or more of her marks to get away.
Not happening.
Working solo meant she had to ensure her own safety. No one had her back. If she didn’t take out all three, she could become a target herself.
Also, not happening.
As she calmed her breathing, she focused in on the first target. Just as she was about to fire, the door to the room opened. A man with long, blond hair entered. All three men jumped up and pointed their guns at him.
Brit removed her finger from the trigger.
No way.
It was Joaquin Dillinger.
No, no, no. What’s he doing here?
Joaquin
Rebel had spentthe past several months traveling between the DMV—the District, Maryland, Virginia—and a small town in south Texas. Drug dealers were bringing fentanyl over the border, pausing twenty miles outside Kingsville, then spiderwebbing the killer drug out as quickly as possible.
Enter Rebel.
As one of Bureau’s best undercover agents, he’d been making inroads with the notorious drug gang. It had been slow as fuck, but he’d finally proven himself to be a reliable mule, moving truckloads north.
Tonight, he was meeting with his regular connections, plus a guy he didn’t know. His goal? Set up another pickup, only this one would be massive. Eighteen-wheeler massive. That would grab the attention of the kingpin himself, known only as Candyman.
And if it fucking killed him, he was going to take these monsters off the streets, get the Bureau what they needed to make an arrest, and slither back into obscurity.
His only challenge?
No one knew where the hell he was.
By his own doing. Being a team player just wasn’t his jam.
After setting up the meeting, Rebel had gone dark on his fourth handler. The first handler had been made, so he’dgotten reassigned. The next two requested transfers because Rebel refused to be managed. Some at the FBI appreciated his renegade operational style, while others thought he was gunning to get himself killed and wanted him yanked altogether. The way he saw it, the more people who knew what he was doing, the greater the chance something could go wrong. And while the brass at the Bureau bitched about his rebellious behavior, they got what they needed… every single time.
He parked a block away, made his way toward the abandoned two-story building on the outskirts of the south Texas ghost town. If he got found out by these thugs, he was on his own. No other agents or law enforcement would be moving in to save his sorry ass.
I got this.
Though he worked alone, the lining of his army green jacket was wired, and a tiny camera had been embedded in the ring he wore on his right hand. The ring had been his dad’s. The surveillance device had been added later.
Here we go…
Rebel accessed the rundown building from the back. After entering through the unlocked door, he turned on his phone’s flashlight before heading to the front room. He expected to be the first to arrive. Not this time. All three men were sitting around the table. They stood, aimed their guns at him.
