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Twelve
Eoghan
Ireland
To sayI was pissed at having my old employers crash my honeymoon was an understatement, but geopolitics being what they were, I knew that MI6 had to be desperate to call me in.
And they were also fucking insane if they thought I could get away with this in a place like Ballymena. A town where the highest vantage point was on the roof of a multi-story parking garage that had a total ofthreestories to its name.
Ballymena had seen recent riots because of an uptick in the Troubles that had plagued this country for centuries. I had to assume the Troubles—the war between people who wanted a unified Ireland and those who didn't—were why I’d been sent here.
“Johnathan and Siobhan Lenister, what the fuck have you been doing to find yourself in my crosshairs?” I murmured to myself as I set up my kit.
It wasn’t my job to question my orders, neither was it my job to care about whoever was on the end of my scope, but sometimes, I was curious.
Especially when this married couple had done something bad enough for MI6 to call in The Whistler and for them to go to the effort of sourcing me a rifle.
As I put the weapon together, I pulled a face. “Well, you’re no Amber, are you?”
I should have brought her with me, but fuck, that would have keyed Inessa into the fact that I was working on our honeymoon. Wasn’t like a sniper rifle would blend in with all herFleurduMallingerie.
I didn’t think I’d survive with my balls if she knew what I was really doing today.
Although, that she could see me spending the day playing golf told me we still had a lot to learn about each other.
Squinting through the scope, I scanned the campsite to find the marker I’d placed there earlier this morning.
“Who are you, hmm?” I asked myself.
The fountain of information had run dry on this couple. As far as I could see, they were just regular folks.
But therein lay the rub.
The Whistler didn’t killregular folks.
He was sent in to defuse political crises in the making, to assassinate troublesome generals who were looking to overthrow governments.
A couple who lived out of a camper van?
No, that wasn’t The Whistler’s usual target.
The top story of the parking garage was empty right now, and with two lower levels barely full and covered, I doubted I’d be disturbed, but I didn’t work with doubt. I needed to know the variables, and I’d calculated that I needed to clamber up onto the small shelter that housed the door to the staircase. Which meant I’d used my Range Rover as a fucking stepladder to get up there.
As I lay flat out on the roof of the covered stairwell, I stared around the small town through my scope and found my target—a park just beyond the Braid riverbank where the couple was staying.
I’d lived in some fucked up places in my time, but I’d never understood camper vans.
Pissing and eating in the same space didn’t sit right with me, and I didn’t have high standards—Afghanistan burned those out of you pretty fucking fast.
The couple had small lawn chairs set out on the grass as if it weren’t ten degrees out here, a wind chime fluttered in the stiff breeze, and there were some towels hanging over a makeshift drying rack.
I found the husband and saw that he was filling a canteen of water from the river.
I’d have taken him out right then and there, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. Killing her man would clue Siobhan into what was happening. The last thing I needed was for her to drive off before I could get her in my sights.
While it was about to become a crime scene, it was an oddly idyllic setup. For all that they had to be either pissing in bottles and shitting in holes in the forest, it looked simple.
Simple was good.
