Tugging around my rifle from the strap, I place the scope against my eye, adjusting the focus until I can see directly into the cabin windows.
The lights are low again, the upper level left with only a haze from the ground floor lights.
I inwardly groan, scanning the area to find John. There’s no obvious movement, and the cabin is only a couple hundred yards away.
Pulling back from the scope, I squint my eyes to get a full picture of the exterior—then it comes.
Snapping my eye back down the scope, he emerges from the shadows like a slow-moving fog.
I focus on his inked hands, an amber bulb glowing in the darkness as he smokes a cigarette. When I glide the crosshair up the rest of his body, I freeze.
What the fuck?
He’s dressed in all black—cargos, combat boots and a quarter-neck zip. It’s padded on the elbows, and he has a belt attached to his bottoms.
It looks like a holster, but the thing that puts me off the most is the bulletproof vest and ski mask.
“Gina?” I whisper through the earpiece.
“I’ve got you on the tracker. Are you good?”
I pull away from the scope to speak better. The way my breathing has picked up, I’m not in the mood to inhale a soggy leaf from the ground.
“Are you watching the feed? Can you see this guy’s attire? He’s got…tactical gear on,” I say in a panic.
I can hear her fingers furiously clattering off her laptop as I wait for a response, pulling up the back feed to witness what I do.
She mutters a curse. “Not getting a good picture with the weather, but I can see him all blacked out. Is he…is he wearing something on his head?”
I don’t answer. Unease creeps through my bones and threatens to take me prisoner.
His job didn’t raise any concerns; he’s a banker. But what if that’s a decoy, and he’s really CIA? Fuck, even FBI?
It wouldn’t surprise me seeing some seedy fuck waggling his way into that kind of position, likely the reason he’s able to help his buddies stay free. Killing him would basically scream for me to get caught.
This wouldn’t be one I’d get away with.
Fuck. This is not what I expected,at all.
There was nothing we could see that described any prior tactical training.
Unless he spends his free time fucking cosplaying.
Which, you know, would possibly pique my interest. Shame he’s a worthless piece of shit behind the mask.
Swallowing, I look down the scope again, and he’s shifted from the sofa, walking up the stairs, the slow swagger on him sending a twinge in my chest.
He moves with such a familiar ease but also doesn’t. I’ve never seen another person like him, and I haven’t even seen his face.
That build?
He’s stacked like a fucking brick shithouse.
I might have managed with all the other marks easily enough, but if this guy’s got any combat training?
I’m definitely cooked.
I keep my gaze locked on the upper window, waiting for him to reappear.
