“I should have thrown you out the window.”
* * *
The Barrett M82A1 was Mickey’s rifle of choice for long distance shots. He’d tried the M107, but found he missed the weight and went back to the M82. He kept it in a discreet case, and it made his fingers itch to pack it away.
Knowing he was going to use it in a short while brought on a flood of adrenaline that made every nerve in his body sizzle.
He barely ate breakfast, and he skipped lunch. Today was the big day, and he was excited. With the job so close, he hadn’t thought much about Roger. He was too busy thinking up contingency plans in case anyone happened to walk into the office while he was there or ran into him on the stairwell.
No matter what happened, he had to make the shot.
Even if he was supposed to miss.
He checked on Pops one more time before he left, made him soup just the way he liked it, and then drove over to the park to pick up Duncan. He was right on time, and they headed over to the office building downtown. They didn’t talk much. Mickey was too focused on the mission, and Duncan knew to keep quiet.
They’d done this many times before. Duncan helped set everything up, and Mickey made the kill. It worked well for them, and today was no exception in spite of the non-lethal objective. It still had to look good, after all.
Cristian would certainly not be very happy if he found out Cold was plotting to snatch up the man he wanted dead.
Mickey parked back behind the office building as before and handed Duncan the keys. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Duncan confirmed.
“See you on the other side.” Mickey moved to get out, but Duncan caught his arm. “What?”
“You’ve always been a real good friend to me, Mickey.” Duncan smiled. “Thank you for that.”
“Uh… sure.” Mickey frowned, gently pulling his arm away. “How about we have this heart to heart after I pretend to kill someone?”
“Right, yeah. Got it.” Duncan fidgeted, quickly sliding over to take the driver’s seat. “I’ll be here.”
Mickey took the case from the trunk and headed inside through the broken emergency door. He didn’t see anyone on his way up and made it to the office they’d picked out yesterday without incident.
His phone buzzed, and he found a text message from one of Cold’s phone numbers.
Good?
Good, he texted back.
Go.
Mickey opened the case and reverently assembled the rifle. He took his time, making sure every piece was perfectly joined. He checked it twice before loading, and he got settled on the floor in front of the window on his stomach.
The windowsill was low enough that he could rest the barrel there, just peeking through the curtains as he peered through the scope to the streets below.
Ah, there was that sweet rush again.
It was fluttering down in Mickey’s belly and tingling over his cheeks and lips. Fake or not, the thrill of the hunt was real enough to excite him. He kept his breathing steady, his finger resting on the trigger guard as he got comfortable.
All he had to do now was wait for Mr. Ricci to make his appearance.
He was able to rest in this position for hours if he had to. Thirty minutes wasn’t going to be a problem at all. He counted them off in his head, mumbling the passing digits under his breath.
When it was three fifty-eight, he saw Mr. Ricci coming down the sidewalk toward the parlor.
A fresh surge of adrenaline made Mickey’s heart pound, and he could feel his pulse in his finger as he moved it over the trigger.
Mr. Ricci appeared nervous. He was sweating and looking around frantically. It was obvious he was expecting this. He hovered near the door, and Mickey saw his chance.
