“Just hide. Help is coming.”
The footsteps stop outside my door. The handle turns slowly, testing, finding it locked.
Then silence.
Silence is worse than noise. Silence means they’re thinking, planning, preparing. The etymology of ‘silence’ comes from Latin “silere,” meaning to be still, but there’s nothing still about this moment. This is active silence, predatory silence, the pause before?—
Something clicks in the lock. Soft. Professional.
They’re coming in.
I pull my knees to my chest, making myself as small as possible under the desk. Go-bag pressed against my ribs. Flash drive cutting into skin beneath my bra. Heart hammering so loud they must hear it.
The door opens with a creak in the hinges I’ve been meaning to oil for months.
A footstep. Another. Careful. Searching.
I hold my breath, close my eyes, and wait for help that probably won’t come in time.
Sarah. David. Lisa.
I’m about to become the fourth accident.
Unless Morrison’s help is very, very close.
TWO
Cooper
SILENT RUNNING
Four hours of perfect silence.
The Seattle waterfront spreads below my position like a tactical map, fog rolling off Puget Sound in predictable patterns that won’t interfere with my sight lines. Dawn breaks gray and quiet, exactly how surveillance should operate. The familiar taste of black coffee gone cold coats my tongue while morning dampness seeps through my tactical gear.
Silence means safety. Always has.
The target building sits three blocks east, its windows reflecting early morning light like mirror shields. Standard corporate architecture housing non-standard business—the third-floor office where arms dealer Drazen Kostic conducts transactions he believes stay private.
Six hours of observation. The patterns are clear. Security rotates every ninety minutes. Delivery entrance is unmonitored between shifts. Executive garage accessible through maintenance tunnels.
My scope tracks movement through the windows—Kostic’s bodyguard checking the perimeter with the lazy confidence of aman who’s never been properly hunted, a secretary arriving early with her predictable vanilla latte, the normal rhythms of a criminal enterprise disguised as legitimate business. Everything proceeds according to established patterns until my encrypted phone vibrates against my ribs.
Once. Ghost.
Only Mason uses that protocol.
But first, unfinished business. Yesterday’s recon included some practice fun. Clay pigeon on Kostic’s roof, precisely 847 meters out. The perfect distance for maintaining skills during mind-numbing surveillance.
Wind speed: minimal.
Temperature: steady.
Humidity: acceptable.
The Barrett .50 caliber settles against my shoulder with familiar weight, cold metal warming under my grip. The scope’s reticle finds the small orange target perched on the distant building’s edge, a bright spot against the gray Seattle morning.
At this distance, physics matters. Bullet flight time: 1.2 seconds. Not shooting where the target is—calculating where it’ll be when death arrives.
