"Who fired?" Silas demands. "Report in."
"That was from inside the plant," Nico answers. "Assault teams, hold position."
I'm in a position to see shapes moving through the grass—dark figures in waist-high grass. At Nico's command, every figure vanishes, dropping to their bellies a few hundred yards away from the target.
There's another gunshot report, carried with a faint rolling echo over the hills.
"What do you want to bet those shots are the work of Boss, somehow?" Silas mutters to Nico.
"I am not a betting man," Nico answers, "But I suspect you are correct."
“He is exactly that infuriating, so I'm with the two of you," I say.
Silas cuts a glare at me, as if I'd denigrated his mother.
I can only laugh. "You guys are sure protective of someone you've never laid eyes on."
Nico sighs. "You act as if that is the strangest thing you've ever heard."
"It is!" I answer. "You didn't even know his real name until a few days ago, you said. Yet he's responsible for your lives? It's weird!"
Silas frowns at me. "You need to stop making so much sense. It's confusing me."
I snort at that. "Sorry, no can do." I point at the target. "Now focus on your little scope thingy.”
"It's a spotter's scope," Silas says. "It's for—"
"I don't care," I say—well, snap. "Just get to work. Whatever is going on down there is the distraction we need."
"Yes, ma'am," Silas growls. "Not one, not two, butthreehard-ass bitches giving us orders."
"Excuse me?" I snap. "Bitches?"
"He means it as a compliment," Nico cuts in.
"Do I, though?" Silas mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
"If you value your testicles,” I mutter back, “then yes, you do."
The shapes in the grass have continued moving, creeping through the waving stalks from two directions. Nico presses a finger to his ear—listening to the voice in his earpiece, I assume.
"Movement spotted," Silas growls. "Doors are opening."
"Down, down, down," Nico snaps. “Tangos are moving. Hold position."
Again, the shapes in the grass drop. Nicolae's entire body language shifts, tension dropping away from his shoulders as he exhales slowly, nuzzling his eyes to the scope, adjusting his grip on the weapon, and wriggling his body into a better position.
"Two spotted," he mutters. "Dragging a deceased third …yes, I have eyes on Jakob. He is bound to a chair in the middle of the space. Pugli is near him…No, I have a narrow field of vision. Thedoor is only open a few feet." He listens. "I should be able to, yes. Give me a second. Silas, range?"
"Eight hundred and…twenty-three meters," Silas answers, and then gives another number—windage; and another—drop. I don't know what any of that means.
Nico adjusts something on his scope as Silas reads off the data, and then mutters again. "Ready. On your mark." I watch him curl his finger around the trigger.
"Mark."
CRACK!
"One away."
