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I track the angle of the body’s fall to the only possible sniping spot—under the eaves of the villa across from mine.
My perch puts me at the same height as its gable. I squint to see who’s inside, but the only motion comes from the choppers cutting across the sky.
Eventually, a Triad soldier in a tracksuit struggles through the underbrush, hauling his fatally wounded buddy. Both are scrawny for alphas, with sunken sockets and protruding veins.
They belong on a corner in the Meadows or in one of Brandon’s cells.
The gable slats shift. A rifle barrel flashes, then a peek of blond ices my lungs.
Dutch.
Metal glints on the ground.
Not from the bleeding Triad soldiers.
They’re the bait.
The glint flashes from the SAS agent, hidden in the brush.
He fires.
The gable implodes, and the splintering boom cracks me in half.
Forget the trap.
Forget the plan.
If Dutch—
My perfume chokes and my heart won’t beat.
I drop from the rafters, already sprinting. The bait alpha scattered after he dropped his dying buddy, leaving him to bleed out.
I unleash full-force poison on the soon-to-be-dead agent who thinks he’s safe in the ferns.
One whiff and he chokes, giving away his position.
I change directions.
Crawling on his stomach, the guy came ready for me in a full-face gas mask.
But I haven’t been playing the long game for fucking nothing.
After years of half-assing Brandon’s tests, the agent’s mask filter isn’t rated to handle me at my salt-the-earth.
Too easy.
Flex. Choke. Gurgle.
Goodbye.
I leap the body. I don’t recognize the guy’s face, but the tropical camo screams SAS. So do the fat-barreled tranquilizer guns strapped to his chest.
Guess who those are for?
With no shits left to give for safety, I dart across the open and bust into the villa. A weathered dresser sits under a hole in the ceiling. I climb into the rafters, cutting my palms. Not feeling a thing.
My heart pumps glass.
