King’s Protector (Checkmate #2)

Chapter 1

Kara Snow - Present Day

The concrete ledge is cold, dampness seeps through my black clothes as I lay against it, taking my position. The heavens opened about ten minutes ago, which has lessened visibility, but I’m a pro, and this is a simple hit.

Piece of cake.

That’s what Andrews had told me when I took the job.

I pull out my binoculars and peer through them, scanning the location where I’d take the shot.

The streets were unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon. An amateur would be nervous, but as I peer through the glasses and assess the streets, I’m nothing but calm.

I have one window, one shot—but that’s all I need.

His convoy will pull up outside the glamourous hotel where he is staying. There will be a single moment as he exits his vehicle. It will take his security a moment, a breath, a heartbeat to get back into position. That’s when I’ll strike.

“Two minutes out,” Andrews’ deep voice rumbles through my earpiece.

“Couldn’t we have chosen a warmer day? I’m soaked.”

His gruff chuckle fills my ear, making it feel like he’s right next to me. “Stop bitching. You love the British weather adding to the challenge. You’d be bored otherwise.”

I snort. “Easy for you to say; you’re sitting nice and cosy in the office.”

“That I am. Look, come in after. I’ve got another assignment.”

“Not a chance. There’s a bath and a bottle of Radox with my name on it. Besides, we had a deal.”

“Tut, tut, little one. Two more jobs, remember, then you’re free. But I tell you what, I can renegotiate your employment term with you—”

“I would have never gotten in the car that day if I knew you were going to be so high maintenance.”

He chuckles. “One more job after this one, then you’re done. We’re even.”

“That means it’s going to be an absolute shit show. I know you; it’s a horror show delivered in a folder.”

I see the convoy through the binoculars, three black SUVs that scream to literally anyone that someone important is on the move.

Heads instinctively turn to see who lingers behind the blacked-out windows.

I shuffle my body into position, lying prone at the top of a building, the ledge three feet higher than the roof.

The perfect location for a sniper. London is full of them. Lots of high-rise buildings, new and old, blended together, making the eyeline rugged and hard to pick out any specific object on a roof.

The perfect camouflage.

I pop the binoculars to the side and peer down the sight of my DXL-3 long range sniper rifle.

Intel suggests he will be in the middle car, and standard operating procedures of security details has me agreeing.

“Need I remind you of the code?”

The sodding code. The bane of my existence. He saved my life, now I owe him. An eye for an eye, a life for a life.

If I’m being honest, indebted or not, if it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead. And that’s as far as I want to go down that avenue of thoughts whilst freezing my tits off on the top of a building, peering down the lens of a sniper rifle.

“Thirty seconds. Coming from the North,” Andrews says.

I push the wandering thoughts away quickly.

Head in the game, Snow.

I draw my sight right, tracking the convoy on their final approach. The SUVs stand out like a sore bloody thumb. I never understood why these people make such a spectacle of themselves. It’s like they are asking to be shot at.

“One shot, Kara. Don’t fuck this up.”

“Kara isn’t here right now. Please leave your name and number,” the convoy pulls up to the hotel, “and she will get back to you.”

“Always a smart ass,” he mumbles.

“Trying to concentrate,” I sing. I pullback the bolt, cocking the gun. The rain pelts down harder, the cold drops bouncing off the concrete ledge and my hands, but everything has disappeared, including Andrews.

I take three deep breaths, and line up my shot.

“Target confirmed in second vehicle.”

“Roger.”

The doors on the two other cars opens, but the one in the middle stands idle.

Waiting.

“Movement,” I say, watching the car like a hawk.

As soon as the door opens and Andrews confirms the target, I’ll take the shot. It will take him about five seconds for the target to move away from the cars and be flanked by his guards. It will take my bullet approximately three seconds to hit its mark.

“Target confirmed, you’re a go.”

My finger moves onto the trigger as I let out my breath from my pursed lips. I squeeze the trigger. The bullet flies from the gun at 1800 mph.

“Bullet away. Three, two, one.”

It hits its mark, ripping through skin, muscle, cartilage and bone as it breaks through the man’s chest cavity, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.

He’ll be dead by the time he’s have even realised anything had happened.

A heartbeat.

A shot.

A life.

Gone.

I remain in position to watch the target fall to the ground. Blood oozes from his wound and pools onto the water-soaked ground, the red mixing with the standing rain water, making the sight even more gruesome.

“That’s a confirmed hit. Target down.”

“Roger that. See you soon.”

In one swift movement, I pull my sniper rifle from the ledge and roll off onto the roof floor. I pack away my equipment in an organised, well-rehearsed fashion.

Sirens wail, car horns blare, people cry, but I’m too far away to see the chaos that has erupted on the streets outside the hotel. I create chaos; I don’t stay to watch the aftermath.

Checking the roof, I look for anything that I may have left behind. Unlikely, but you can never be too sure. I’ve known people in this field of work get sloppy, and I will not be one of them.

From the moment I pulled the trigger to climbing back through the window into the abandoned office building, thirty seconds has passed.

And yet, I feel nothing.

Numb to the fact that I’ve just killed a man.

I’d read the reports, done enough of my own research to know that the world is better off without that arsehole living in it.

I’m made for this work—that’s what Andrews had said since we first met and he ‘took me under his wing’. No family ties, a shitty upbringing and unresolved baggage that can barely fit in a suitcase tends to be good qualifications. He said I’m a natural fighter, a survivor, and have a cold heart.

Maybe I am cold.

Maybe I have always been destined to be the killer I am.

But maybe I am who I am, because of him.

Killing people doesn’t stop me from sleeping like a baby at night.

My first ever kill was sloppy and scrappy—multiple knife wounds to the gut. It was a slow and painful death.

I stood with blood on my hands, dripping from the knife onto the floor, watching the light leave the eyes of my victim.

It was fascinating.

The power I had felt in that moment. The power of taking a life. Besides, he deserved it. I regret nothing.

Fuck, maybe I was a cold-hearted bitch.

I push the tarpaulin that blocks the staircase out of the way and pick up my pace.

“Where are you?”

“Heading to extraction point. Situation?”

“Messy. Police are responding, but it’s like a movie outside the hotel. Poor doorman looked like he was going to shit himself. Hell, I think he did.”

I smile to myself, a small laugh escaping at the image. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, I open my duffel bag, remove my black jacket and top, replacing them with a white one and blazer. Goosebumps pebble along my wet skin as I change quickly.

My black trousers are saturated, but this would at least make me less conspicuous.

“I’m cold,” I admit, as a shiver wracks my body.

“Don’t even think about going home for that Radox bubble bath. This job will be worth it. I’m telling you, you won’t need to work for five years. The payout is unreal.”

“It will be if it means I get you off my arse quicker. What’s the cut?”

“I’ll be a nice guy and go 50/50.”

“Fuck that Andrews, I’ll be doing all the grunt work. 60/40.”

“You want to give me sixty little one? You’re too kind.”

I snort and roll my eyes as I push the door, exiting onto the wet London street in Canary Wharf.

“Hell, I’ll go with those terms, it’s a fucking shit ton of money. BUT it is marginally different from your usual MO,” Andrews continues.

“I hate the sound of this already. Different how?”

“Well, it’s simple really Kara. Instead of taking a life, you’ll be trying to stop a life from being taken.”

“I’m an assassin Andrews, not a fucking bodyguard. Get Grant to do it.”

“Nope. It needs to be you little one. Now get your arse here so I can brief you.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me. No way in hell Andrews. Nope. Not for a million pounds am I doing this!” I push my chair back from the desk and stand, giving Andrews my biggest stink eye.

A big shit-eating grin appears on his face, turning his usual pensive, serious face handsome. He runs a hand through his pepper-white hair, styled in his usual short cut. His blue eyes sparkle full of intelligence.

Straight nose, chiselled jaw that has a short stubble of hair, sparkling eyes, athletic, deadly and downright deprived. This man is the closest thing I have to a father.

His eyes assess me, eyes full of many secrets, including mine. Eyes that I don’t want to look at me like he does.

Full of pride, full of compassion, full of respect, but full of those secrets that are mine which he holds over me, that also need to stay buried.

I shake my head, having to suppress my snort of disbelief as I mentally return to what he just said.

What a preposterous idea.

I’m not baby-sitting some douchebag politician.

I kill the douchebags. Not babysit them.

This is bringing him such amusement, and I want to cut that fucking smile off his face.

I lean down and grab my bag, throwing it over my shoulder before walking the five steps to the glass window and door that separates Andrews’ office from the rest of the floor.

“I’m going for my bubble bath. Call me when you have a proper job.” I go to reach the handle when he pipes up.

“What about for five million pounds?”

I stop dead in my tracks.

“I’m listening,” I mumble, teeth gritted.

“Three months.”

“And…”