“Good.” The smug asshole sounded pleased as punch. “I’m assuming you have what you need to take care of the phones, alarm system, and any externally linked cameras?”
“Jammer’s already set up and ready to roll.”
“Glad to hear it. The last thing we need is your ass being caught on video.”
Michael glanced at the property through his monocular once more. “How sure are we that the husband isn’t going to interrupt the job?”
“Very. Intel confirms Owens is at some work conference in Miami. Checked into his hotel yesterday morning, and the reservation is for the next five days. Trust me, you’ll already be in the air by the time he gets the news.”
He wouldn’t simply be in the air; Michael would be on his way to a private beach house just outside a no-name village in Fiji. And while he laid low for a while in a place no one would think to look, Amanda’s husband and daughter would be forced to lay the women they loved to rest.
Michael’s gut tightened as the guilt he’d been fighting came rushing back to the surface. He’d gotten to know Rafe Owens pretty well over the last couple of years, and he seemed to be a standup guy.
According to Amanda—and the deep dive Michael had conducted while looking into the man’s background—the muscular man made his living selling high-end insurance policies. Michael had laughed the first time he saw the woman’s husband, convinced Amanda had been pulling his leg.
The guy looked more like he belonged in a boxing ring than behind some desk wearing a suit and tie. But Michael’s suspicions had been quickly been proven wrong when the intel he uncovered corroborated everything Amanda had shared.
Rafe Owens was simply a licensed corporate insurance broker with an extreme dedication to his presumably intense workout regime. And from what Michael had witnessed while posing as one of Amanda’s accounting co-workers, the other man loved his wife and child more than anything else in the entire fucking world.
Good thing he’ll never know it was me.
“You still there?” The voice in the phone brought Michael back from his wandering thoughts.
“I’m here.”
“Any other questions?”
“What about the little girl?”
“What about her?” The man acted as if he’d just asked about something as mundane as the weather.
“What if she wakes up?”
“It’s two o’clock in the morning, and she’s six. As long as you aren’t a dumbass, she shouldn’t hear a thing.” There was a slight pause before the cold-hearted bastard added, “That being said, if she does happen to wake up, you know what has to be done.”
Fuck.
Michael swallowed against the bile threatening to rush into his throat. He was a lot of things, but a child killer? No. That wasn’t fucking him.
“Come on, Michael,” the man spoke up again. “What’s with you tonight? It’s like I’m talking to the Jolly Green Giant of agents. This isn’t your first rodeo, so get your head on straight and get the fucking job done.”
The other man’s words struck a chord. No, he wasn’t green. Nowhere near it, in fact. He was an experienced operative who worked for the most clandestine agency in the world, and this wasn’t anywhere close to being his first assassination.
So maybe you should get your shit together and start fucking acting like it. Otherwise…
“Anything else?” he bit out harshly, clenching his teeth together and waiting.
“Nothing other than to say good luck. And…let me know when it’s done.”
“Don’t I always?” Michael ended the call, not waiting for a response to his rhetorical question. A second later, he broke the flip phone in two.
This situation sucked, and there were bound to be a few sleepless nights in his near future, but there was only one way this thing ended with him still upright and breathing. When it came down to it, Michael was a selfish fucking bastard to the core who put his own needs and wants above anyone else.
It didn’t matter that the person he’d been ordered to kill was the closest thing to a true friend he had. Nor did Amanda’s status as a wife and mother alter the path he had to follow.
The choice had been made, and the order had been given. The only thing left for him to do now was to get the job done and then get the hell out.
Michael reached a gloved hand over the leather-bound console to the weapon waiting in the passenger seat beside him. He picked up the Glock 19, and with several swift turns of his wrist, attached the long, black, metal suppressor to its barrel.
