“I don’t want to talk about him,” I snap, my voice cracking. “I don’t care if he’s lost his head or his dick.”
“I want to go on a date tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. And every damn day from now on. I want to show him I can meet other people. That I will fall for someone else. Someone better than him.”
By the time I finish, I don’t even realize I’m shouting, and crying.
The sob breaks me open. I bury my face in my palms, shoulders trembling, the sound of my own brokenness filling the room.
Zloban
My jaw trembles from the intensity of my rage, guilt, self-hatred, and helplessness coursing through my bones. Ican’t bear to see her cry like this, especially knowing I’m the cause.
I close the laptop, rise, and pick up Horizon’s case before storming out of my study and then out of the house.
I reach the parking lot. Sitting behind the wheel, I scroll through the names of the targets in my mind. Tonight I hunt in LA. I ask my AI assistant, Vault, to list the targets I have there. I have a habit of keeping a close eye on those I hate… and those I love. The latter is only one person, though.
By midnight, I reach my first vantage point atop a building owned by Nexoil. In the past few years, all the showroom buildings we constructed were made tall, so that I could take a shot from them if needed.
In the chaos of the city, locking onto a target is difficult. I settle Horizon on its stand, attaching the full array of sniper accessories: scope, suppressor, bipod, and rangefinder. My first target is Blake Thornton, a 38-year-old don who tried to play games in an arms deal a week ago. He came to San Diego for the deal, and we have a rule: no killing on our turf. I order my men to finish off the ones I don’t like, but I like killing the special ones myself.
He is standing outside the club he owns, a girl pressing herself against him. He’s groping her, waiting for his car. I have one minute to take the shot. He’s 2.77 km away, nottoo far, and completely exposed. The only risk is hitting the girl.
I inhale slowly, shoulder settled into Horizon’s stock, cheek welded, sight picture steady. The scope narrows to a reticle and one tiny, regular heartbeat. I dial range and click windage in mils, apply the computed hold for 2,770 m, then confirm target velocity and bearing. Breath out to the natural pause.
The trigger pad meets my finger; a measured, continuous squeeze, and the firing pin falls. Recoil transmits up my arm. Acoustic returns, a distant horn, a glass tinkle, the shot’s exhale. Then the soundscape collapses back into the scope. I track the tracer mentally, compensate for drop and Coriolis, and let ballistics carry the round.
I watch the look of horror on the girl’s face as she scans her surroundings, then I close the target in my mind. Next.
Vault tells me about the location of my next target.
I open my eyes when sunlight strikes my closed lids. I sit on the roof of my SUV, where I fell asleep. My phone vibrates beside me. I pick up Leo’s call.
“Today’s headlines in the underworld: ‘Phantom out for killing.’ By the way, good morning, brother. Any reason for killing eleven men in LA in a single night?”
I watch the sun climb. Killing makes the hollowness go away for a few hours. Now the blood has cooled and the void is back, it’s a hole in my chest that makes every breath a struggle. I need to see her or I’ll suffocate.
I cut Leo’s call and open the house feed. She’s nowhere outside her room, and there’s no camera in her room.
I drop from the roof of the vehicle and start pacing across the rough earth of the wild woods. I’m three hours from San Diego, anxiety ratchets with every tick of the clock. I try to take deep breaths, but my lungs refuse to cooperate.
I can’t see her, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t fine.
“She is sleeping in her room.”
“She is fine.”
I repeat the phrases, my fingers move on reflex. I activate the drone in my study, muttering, “She is fine,” as if saying it enough will make it true.
I pilot it toward her window. There she is. My chest eases, the pressure in my lungs loosens. She’s sleeping on her bed. I zoom in on her face. It’s swollen, she must have cried for hours before finally falling asleep.
I caress the screen with the featherlight touch of my fingertips. “I’m sorry, Dove.”
Leo was right. I won’t survive this. I can neither bear to see her unhappy nor stand to see her happy with someone else. I’m utterly fucked.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Leo again. I answer.
“Have you completed your routine surveillance?”
“What do you want?”
