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1
JACE
Dumbo neighborhood,
Brooklyn,
New York City
“He is forty feet away… Thirty-five…”Roey’s voice in my earpiece is like an AI countdown.
“I have him,” I whisper, my heart starting to thud. But my hands are steady on the dart rifle. A gun has become my arm’s extension in the last few years.
For a split second, a passing yellow cab blocks my scope, then the reticle is back on the short dark silhouette of our target, Anatolyi Reznik. Walking hurriedly on the other side of the street from the office building I’m in, he nervously looks around, scanning the dark street like he can sense Roey and Miller shadowing him.
I got this.
“Thirty feet. He’s suspicious.”
There’s a loud banging on the third floor above me.
Freaking Brooklyn. It’s midnight on a Wednesday, but apparently, New York City never sleeps.
“Don’t fuck it up, Shooter.”
This is our highest-paid job yet, and I reel in anticipation over the walking five-million dollars in my view, about to be sedated. That is besides the fact that we beat the Brexton Recovery bounty hunters who lost this assignment half a year ago. Assholes can suck it this time.
“Twenty feet. No passersby.”
I breathe steadily, the reticle of my scope moving with the hurried figure of the crypto-currency mastermind who screwed some very important people for a lot of money.
“Ten feet. Yellow cab is coming. Hold it.”
The cab pulls to a stop, completely blurring my scope vision as Reznik disappears behind it.
“Wait.”
Through the open window that holds my dart rifle, I hear voices by the cab, one of them female and overly excited. Then the cab pulls away, clearing my scope vision with—
No, not Reznik. A pink fur coat envelopes him in an embrace.
“Who is this?” I murmur in annoyance, studying the bulky fashion coat that looks like it’s been ripped off a unicorn.
The long blond hair, slender legs, and stilettos belong to a young girl. She blocks Reznik as she chats him up, her fairytale princess laughter echoing through the empty street of Dumbo, the trendy Brooklyn neighborhood that overlooks the East River and Manhattan on the other side of it.
“Wait. It’s someone he knows.”
Odd.
This must be the reason he left his bodyguards by the subway. Somehow, the meeting with this girl is special.
This is the trickiest assignment I’ve had in a year of working for Roey.
Six months ago, Reznik sent three trackers who located him to a hospital after poking them with a nerve-agent-poisoned needle embedded in his wrist bracelet. We don’t want to take the chance of grabbing him bare-handed. So sedating him with a dart was the go-to choice.
A loud bark jerks both the blondie and Reznik’s heads to the left. A lone white dog walks up to them, and the girl gets down on her haunches.
“Oh, look at you, sweetie,” she coos, stretching her hand to the dog. “Are you lost?”
