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The truth settles in. The second my man left New York, he was prepared to die. And it’s all because ofme.
24
Victor
Luxury must’ve gone fuckingmad,past insane, after the extensive time I’ve been off the grid.
Thattosser, Ahmad, deployed explosives extending a minuscule radius. At the last moment, I launched myself behind some steel-like statue. As he lay moaning, I squeezed off two hollow-tip bullets between his eyes and fled to the alarming sound of an army of footfalls.
Ahmad’s meddling and death sent the sheikh into hiding. The only positive turn of events is that the wanka secured passage for himselfandhis beloved daughter.
Unearthing their hideaway while forgoing the assistance of my intelligence team has proven an incomparable challenge. I returned to Al Rafi’s casino and observed the rotation of various security, planting trackers on his supercars and armored SUVs. I’ve tracked numerous vehicles to seek out where his defense has traveled while not at the casino. Interacting with guests at the hotel, I’ve gleaned from the common gossips that Al Rafi faults the Sheikh of Tavar for sending a lone assassin in to end him.
For the past week, I’ve stayed in the home of a man who was ruffing up a woman one night. Since I introduced myself to him, he’s been preoccupied with death, shoved into his bedroom closet. Sort of reminds me of my first X-Member mission.
As rats scurry around on the dirt floor of my host’s living quarters, I observe the various trackers.
“There’s a trend,” I mutter.
They’re leaving at certain times. Breakfast, brunch, supper.I run a hand over the back of my neck, stifling a laugh, then kick at a particularly comfortable rodent that has taken up residence near my boot.Burt would riot.
“Ha, ha, ha, that bloody bastard, Al Rafi, requires a fry-up. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. One mustn’t deprive themselves of such luxuries.”
I glance around.Shite.Well, one deprives themselves for true love.
I wag a finger at the pinpoint. “You love no one, huh, you dirty cunt.”
As I preview the digital map, the location appears somewhere remote. Possibly subterraneous. “Wealthytossershould’ve invested in building a proper bunker,” I mutter to myself while clearing out the server. I won’t risk a proper search of where I’ve triangulated the sheikh to be. Placing his latitude and longitude location into Google Maps is out.Who’s to say he’s not that paranoid.Although, his cravings will be the death of him.
* * *
At the casino and hotel, I blend in once again in the customary attire—an all-whitethawb,with a Glock concealed beneath the robe, and a checkered keffiyeh tied on top of my head.
In the covered parking structure is a flank of the sheikh’s supercars opposite billions of dollars’ worth of bulletproof vehicles, similar to all the ones I’ve tracked.
As the evening sunlight streams into the opening of the parking structure, I crouch behind the farthest armored SUV, far from the entrance, and await the next to leave.
Sure enough, the ping of a lift descending to the appropriate level echoes into the quiet area, followed by the elevator doors opening.
I measure the steps, counting one set as particularly heavy and another two of moderate size.
I move around the vehicles, revealing myself.
In a split second, I’ve shot the heavy bloke, who’s at least seven feet, clear through the skull. The next suppressed bullet penetrates the legs of his smaller companion. I use the butt of the gun to slam into the smaller guard’s temple. He falls, instantly unconscious, and then I level the gun at the third person.
A gorgeous woman.
A chef.
Ahhh, I see. She serves two purposes for the sheikh.
With trembling hands up in surrender, she begs, “Please don’t kill me.”
“That’s up to you, lady. Your honesty is your life insurance policy. Are we understood?” I prompt.
“Ye-yes.”
“You’re visiting the sheikh?”
