41. Rafferty
Rafferty
I ’ve got Venetia in my sights. She is going to be the death of me, crouching down right above the gates, a sitting duck. But there is no point in causing a massive argument about it. She won’t move, and we would be wasting time and losing our advantage of being ready.
I adjust the focus on my scope, the world sharpening into a circle of deadly clarity. Six vans. All black, all moving in a tight, disciplined convoy.
It snakes up the road slowly. Six black vans, moving in tight formation. Professional. Low beams slicing through the dark. I count them off, calculating their speed, their spacing. They’re not amateurs.
My gaze flicks back to Venetia. She’s a dark silhouette against the bruised sky, a perfect target. My jaw tightens. She’s the queen, and she’s putting herself right in the line of fire. It’s infuriating. It’s magnificent. My finger twitches on the trigger with the primal need to protect her.
I refocus on the distance, but there’s no movement. They’ve stopped.
“Approaching on foot. Makes sense,” I mutter. But it does mean we are going to be waiting for a while as they make their way to us from several miles out. It’s like they’re torturing us on purpose. I wouldn’t put it past Cravenmoor. He seems the type.
The type who enjoys the overture before the slaughter. The kind of prick who savours the fear, letting it marinate. He’s not just coming to kill us; he’s coming to dismantle us, piece by piece, starting with our fucking nerves.
I drag my gaze away from Venetia and back to the empty road. Patience is a killer’s virtue, but this bastard is testing mine. He’s making us wait, letting the tension build, hoping we’ll make a mistake. He’s wrong.
Scanning the tree line at the edge of the grounds, I search for any break in the pattern, any shadow that moves unnaturally. Nothing. Just the wind whispering through the branches like a fucking ghost.
I pan back to Venetia. She hasn’t moved. A statue carved from shadows and fury. She’s bait, and she knows it. She’s daring them to come for her first. I want to yell at her and protect her, but I’ve come to learn that will only piss her off.
So, I force my attention back to the kill zone.
My world narrows to the glass of the scope, the crosshairs, the cold, patient wait for a target to appear.
The silence stretches, taut and thin. Tapping my trigger finger gently, I sigh.
I want to end this. To kill. To destroy.
To make sure that Venetia is safe and alive at the end of it.
But still we wait.
My breath ghosts in the cold air, a rhythm of controlled patience. My eye is pressed to the scope, a circle of cold glass separating me from the world. Every shadow is a potential enemy, every rustle of leaves is a threat.
My gaze flicks back to Venetia, stubborn and beautiful. A king should protect his queen, not watch her offer herself up as a sacrifice. But she’s not a queen; she’s a fucking warlord, and this is her battlefield. Respecting that is probably the hardest thing I will ever have to do.
Then, a flicker.
A shadow detaches itself from another shadow, beyond the moat, in the hedgerows. I zoom in, my breath held tight in my chest. Black tactical gear, a rifle held at the ready. Alone. A scout. He’s good, using the natural cover, but I’m better.
The crosshairs settle on the space between his eyes.
I exhale slowly, squeezing the trigger. The crack of the rifle is swallowed by the wind, but the result is absolute. The shadow drops, a puppet with its strings cut. One down. How many to go?