Given the importance, I needed to have a clear head. To do that, I had to coil my emotions tight. A hard feat because I couldn’t stop picturing Nicky hunched in on herself, shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Her heart broken. Soul fractured. She was hurting, and I could do nothing to ease that pain. Nothing but clench my fists as the anger built, an anger that served as a shield to keep my fear at bay. I worried about Zaza too. Worried what this Jospeh might do in the name of revenge against Nicky.
When I’d left with a promise I’d return with the baby, I’d wanted to say so much to Nicky. Such as the fact I, too, was falling in love. Instead, through a tight jaw I growled, “Lock the door and don’t answer for anyone.”
I could only hope Joseph and his goons hadn’t been spying on us and seen us checking in. In my paranoia, I’d paid cash, not wanting to take any chances a card could be traced.
As an added precaution, I also chose not to take my car. Joseph’s people would recognize it for sure. Before I called a taxi, I studied a map that pinpointed the coordinates of Jospeh’s cell phone that my friend Phil dug up for me. Phil was more than happy to repay me for saving his life.
A simple Google search of the address showed a chalet similar to mine but with a view of some ski slopes. One of the runs even passed right by the house and gave me an idea. Before my injury, I’d loved to ski and Colorado was the place to learn and excel at it. I’d not strapped myself into a set of boards in over a decade. Hadn’t dared, knowing I’d pay for the strain to my injury for days after. Who cared about pain, though, with the baby in danger?
With a plan forming, I summoned a cab and directed the driver to drop me off at a ski resort a half mile from the property where Joseph was holed up.
As I stood in line to get checked in, no one thought to question my duffle bag, most likely assuming I’d brought some gear with me. I paid for my lift ticket and ski equipment rental in cash and the person manning the counter didn’t bat an eye.
The duffel went in my lap as I rode the chair lift up the hill, my clipped skis dangling from my feet, the pole straps looped around my left wrist. The leap from the chair and the subsequent landing brought a slight wince as pain stabbed through my thigh. I’d live.
While I waited for the throbbing to subside, I took a moment to orient myself and locate which hill I needed to descend. A hill much too busy for me to pull a gun unnoticed. The place milled with people. Too many for my liking. Apparently, the fact darkness fell just after dinner didn’t deter the avid skiers. Couldn’t really blame them when the resort had lights illuminating the snowy runs.
First order of business? Clear the area of civilians. A few ideas went through my head. Screaming “avalanche” would start a stampede with English speakers. I had no idea what to yell in Italian, not to mention that might cause civilian injury as people panicked. Hell, I could even be in trouble if someone decided to go after the person crying wolf.
I could disable the lift and wait a bit while those at the top vacated. It would remove the crowd but, at the same time, would make my own downhill sprint all the more noticeable under the bright lights.
The best solution? Take out the lamps.
Usually in an operation like this, there would be a team. Someone in a command post would watch electronically. Another person or two would be in charge of disabling the power source. Then there would be the actual reconnaissance team that would scout the territory and target location.
In this case, I only had me so I had to improvise. Usually, lights ran in a daisy chain. Disrupt one link and the others would follow, the question being, which direction did the chain run? From the top or bottom?
With the people wandering all over the place, I didn’t look odd leaning against the light pole illuminating the peak of the slope. Running up from the snowy ground was a thick, metal casing going to a locked control box. In the movies, a hero would have pulled out some shears and snipped. I preferred to not get electrocuted. Smashing it open would draw attention—unless folks were already distracted.
While I usually tried to not involve civilians in operations, my need proved greater than that moral obligation. Seeing a corpulent fellow waving off his companions as he huffed for breath just from getting up the hill in the lift, I saw an opportunity. I left my skis and poles with my duffel to the side of the light pole before I wandered over and leaned close, putting my hand on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
The fellow eyed me and chattered something rapid-fire in Italian. Didn’t really care what he said. I remained partially bent, obstructing the view of my squeezing hands which located the proper pressure points.
The guy’s eyes rolled back and he slumped, leading me to yell, “Help. I think he’s having a heart attack.”
As people rushed over—some to video, others to gawk—a pair of employees rushed in as I sidled off, moving back to the light pole with its control panel. While people concentrated on the fallen man, I used my knife to force open the box, seeing several buttons labelled in Italian. Fuck translating. Smashing the butt of my knife several times against them caused a few sparks and gave me the result I wanted.
The lights went out.
As chaos erupted, I pocketed the knife, grabbed my stuff, and calmly walked off. Funny how people lost their minds as if the darkness were an unnatural and evil thing. Meanwhile, I’d always felt at home in it. I don’t know about other snipers, but I’d always enjoyed working from the shadows. My therapist told me that it was because I saw myself as an agent of death.
Whatever, Gary. I never bothered trying to explain how the lack of light meant no glinting off metal. No glare to make me squint. No need to lie perfectly still for hours on end.
While people screamed in mock fear—and some genuine—and pulled out their phones to use as flashlights—the unconscious man losing his audience—I positioned myself with my gear at the top of the slope. I clipped my skis to my boots, pulled down my googles, grabbed a pole in each hand, and pushed off.
The first few seconds proved dicey as my body had to remember the form and movement required to get me moving smoothly. Soon I was crouched and flying downhill, my gaze focused on the sparse lights from the windows of houses flanking the left side of the hill. On the taxi ride over, I’d counted on a satellite map how many homes came before the one with Joseph.
In the movies, the sniper—a.k.a. me—would have pulled out a rifle and shot at the place while zipping by, miraculously hitting the lookouts. Totally improbable, hence why I veered into the woods on the right side when I’d reached the spot I wanted.
The skis came off, as did the goggles. The tree I chose to shimmy creaked and complained almost as much as my body. Good thing I didn’t need to go too high. Because of the chalet’s exposure, I could easily spy and get off a clear shot.
First, though, a peek. I needed to be sure I aimed at the right property and people. While my buddy had been seeking Joseph’s cell phone location, I’d also had him find me a picture of Nicky’s husband. Not a simple task, seeing as how the mobster kept himself low-key.
When my buddy, after much digging, found one on a social media post for the opening of a new club, I could see why Nicky had fallen for the guy. He was classic Italian. Tall, fit, dark-haired, with those chiseled features women went nuts for. As a guy, I noticed the cruel tilt to the lips, the cold gaze and the arrogance of a man used to getting his way. I could also have been projecting.
I swung the rifle up and aligned the scope for a glimpse. It took a moment of focusing before I could discern details.
