KILL SHOT
By Liliana Hart
PROLOGUE
William Sloane was a killer. And he liked it.
He stepped off his private jet into the hot African desert, adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, and curled his lip in disgust at the sight before him. Dust swirled in devilish whirls, and the fine grains lodged themselves in places not meant for sand. His eyes watered, and though his mouth stayed closed, the gritty particles crunched like bits of broken shell between his molars.
Ramshackle huts sat in drunken rows, pieced together with worn cloth and brittle wood. Crude chairs were scattered around the remains of long-cold fires, and a thick iron stew pot lay haphazardly on its side, thickly crusted with old food.
God, how did people live in such filth?
The horrendous conditions weren’t likely to bother the people of this tiny village anymore. The body count was just shy of a hundred—a paltry sum in comparison to some of the other sites—but every death brought him closer to finding the original components of the formula.
Each test only improved his chances of succeeding—the rush of power almost overwhelming with every death. He walked through the wasteland of scattered bodies, stepped over emaciated limbs, and barely spared a glance at the remains of a group of children. There were no consequences to face if the experiments failed as this one had. William’s reach was vast—his influence unparalleled—and his pockets were deep.
The cleanup was already underway. It would take only hours for the bodies to be incinerated. For the crude huts to be leveled and the ground swept clean of any reminder that humans had once lived there. His smile of grim satisfaction had more than one of the workers in grey jumpsuits with the black logo over the breast pocket heading in the opposite direction.
“Mr. Sloane…Mr. Sloane?”
William started at the high-pitched, nasally voice of his head scientist and watched with hidden revulsion as Dr. Alan Standridge lumbered over. Standridge was as wide as he was short. Sweat stains yellowed his too-small lab coat, and a white button hung limply by a lone thread, as if it knew its days were numbered and it would never have the satisfaction of penetrating a buttonhole again. Standridge’s disheveled hair was dampened at the temples, and his glasses sat crooked on his pug nose. But under the layers of fat and distaste was the mind of a genius.
“Standridge,” William acknowledged with a nod, not bothering to extend his hand. “Are we getting closer?”
“It’s all trial and error at this point. Every test brings new results.” He pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose so his muddy eyes bugged out in their nervous sockets.
That’s what William liked about Standridge. Morals never got in the way of an experiment, which was exactly why Standridge had been let go from his position at MIT. The chemicals for healing were never quite as fascinating as the chemicals for killing.
“So what you’re saying is we’re no goddamned closer to having the formula than we were the last time.”
A cold bead of sweat dripped from the nape of his neck down William’s spine, and the red haze of anger clouded his vision. Nothing would be more satisfying than putting his hands around Standridge’s pudgy neck and squeezing.
“What you’re telling me is that The Passover Project is useless.”
“Yes…I mean, no.” Standridge grimaced and shrunk as far as he could into the enormity of his lab coat.
“My patience grows thin, Dr. Standridge. Failure to complete this experiment is not an option. Do you think there aren’t other scientists who could do this for me? I already have your replacement lined up should you continue to fail. And you won’t be sent to your retirement with benefits, if you understand my meaning.”
William nodded in satisfaction as Standridge’s pasty complexion turned even paler.
“You’ve got to give me another chance, Mr. Sloane. I know I’m getting closer. Maybe two more experiments. I swear,” the scientist whined. “We can’t rush a weapon of this magnitude. It has an enormous number of variables, and it’s going to take time. There’s never been anything like this. The man who created it has no equal.”
“Obviously,” Sloane derided. “I have appointments to keep, Standridge. And I believe you need to get back to the lab. I’ve picked out a Native American tribe in Central Mexico for your next experiment. I want you to target the chief. If you manage not to fuck it up, he’ll die a quick death. If you do manage to fuck it up…well, let’s just say you and the chief will have a lot in common.”
William Sloane boarded the plane with a smile on his face.
CHAPTER ONE
By her calculations, Grace Meredith had exactly five and a half seconds to take out six targets before an alarm sounded. She had a round in the chamber and five in the magazine of her M40A5. Piece of cake.
She ignored the mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds searching for exposed flesh, and she ignored the sweat that dripped steadily down her spine as she looked through the scope of her rifle. The temperature was in the mid- nineties, but the canopy of trees that blanketed the area held the heat in like an oven and slowly baked anyone who didn’t have shelter. Her body and mind were disciplined, so the discomforts didn’t register.
Colombia wasn’t known for its gentle climate. Or gentle anything for that matter. Gemino Vasquez was Colombia’s baddest arms dealer, and lately his biggest client had been North Korea. But Vasquez had something Grace wanted very badly. Something that would bring in a big, fat paycheck from the South Korean government.
She shifted slightly, and the bark of the large tree branch she’d lain on for the last four hours ground against her stomach. But her focus was absolute. Not even the hundred-and-fifty-foot drop to the ground could distract her.
The orange sun blazed just over the tops of the trees, but it would disappear completely in another twenty minutes. By the time it was gone, she’d have the flash drive in hand and already be across the border to Venezuela.
Grace did one final check of all her equipment and took a deep, steadying breath, slowing her heartbeat so her pulse would be in time with each shot. She’d hit the sentry at the top of the Vasquez compound first and then take the rest in order from left to right. She pushed her feet against the tree for balance. The clock ticked in the background of her mind as she put the slightest amount of pressure on the trigger.
“One,” she whispered. She didn’t wait to watch him fall but moved to the next target. Five seconds until the report from her rifle reached their ears. Five seconds for five more kills.
Grace didn’t stop to check the accuracy of her shots. She never missed. She hung her rifle on a tree branch, already missing the feel of it in her hands. Time was of the essence now, and she couldn’t afford to be burdened with too much equipment; she’d have to leave it behind. The new guards would be driving up soon for the shift change, and she had to be long gone by then.
