Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BELLATRIX
Gabby insisted I was obsessed. I assured her I was just doing my due diligence.
Keeping an eye out on the fucker’s apartment and making sure we didn’t have any cops on our tail.
Or ghosts. Or whatever this guy was. Because I was pretty certain he wasn’t human.
I just hadn’t quite figured out what else to call him.
I refused to call him Casper—the name Vee had jotted down in his file—even if it seemed fitting.
I never believed in all that paranormal shit.
It came with the job. It was a lot harder to take someone out when you thought there was a very real possibility of them haunting your ass when you were done with them.
It was also much easier to go about your day when your targets stayed dead and their bodies didn’t disappear into thin air.
The blood trail had ended on the sidewalk where his car had been parked, telling me I hadn’t hit anything vital or someone had tossed him inside and drove away. I didn’t see any drag marks, though, so at the very least he was upright. What happened after he got in that car was anyone’s guess.
All I knew was that he hadn’t come back here. I would have seen him if he had.
It had been a little over a week without a sighting.
The same lamp lighting up the tiny window and the usual traffic going in and out of the bar beneath it.
Gabby and I had made sure to leave everything exactly how we found it.
Including the pocket knife that was currently rusting in the sink.
I had plenty more where those came from and there was nothing notable on it that could lead anyone back to me.
The only thing we took were the sheets, which we replaced with the same color and brand. Paid for in cash. Not that the cops around here would look that deep into it. Most of them were tied up with the mob and too busy to actually investigate a real crime.
I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. Slowly releasing it and repeating the process. It helped me stay focused. And awake. And right now, I needed to be both of those things.
I was squared up on the adjacent rooftop. Scope pressed to my face and rifle tucked under my chin. I had to factor in the wind and rain, adjust for the distance and the glass. But the moment he popped up again, the moment I had a clear shot, I was taking it.
He wasn’t getting up this time.
I jolted awake when a large drop of water splattered on the stock and splashed me in the face. Usually the adrenaline spike was enough to keep me awake on these long stakeouts. Not this time.
I brushed my thumb over the ocular lens to clear the rain away and peered across the street again. Peeking over the top of the scope when I noticed that the light in the window was off.
I’d missed it. Someone had gone into the room and I crashed out and missed it. Son of a bitch…
I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the time. Two hours had passed. Which meant that whoever was in there was likely long gone by now. I kept watching anyway. Upping the magnification when I spotted the curtain move to the side like someone was brushing by it.
Then I spotted the figure doing the brushing.
About the right size and height. Similar profile and build.
I just needed confirmation. I couldn’t take out a civilian for the hell of it.
It was too messy. And the second shadow confirmed there was a civilian in that room with him.
Likely a female or a small male. Someone who couldn’t walk on their own and was probably dragged up into that room after having their drink spiked like mine had been.
He tossed whoever it was onto the bed and switched the lamp on.
Lighting up the window like it was Christmas morning and I was the kid coming down the stairs to get the first look at all the presents.
I adjusted my scope again, and he shoved the glass open and grinned.
A rifle propped on his shoulder by the time I’d registered that he’d grabbed it.
And then I heard the familiar click at the same time I gradually pressed down with a finger. Once, twice.
He missed. I didn’t.
“Gotcha, fucker.”
I preferred a good headshot, but two to the chest worked just as well when I was on a time crunch. I watched the body drop, already packing up my gear and tossing it onto my shoulder before heading back down the way I came.
I quickly hopped from one fire escape to the next, landing on the street with a near silent thump of boots meeting concrete. I had thirty minutes to clear the scene. On a good night, I could do it in fifteen. I’d gotten enough practice.
But apparently tonight wasn’t a good night.
I’d just made it halfway up the metal fence that separated the alleyway from my bike when a hand was wrapping around my ankle and tugging me down again.
I kicked out a foot and peered over a shoulder. That same stupid grin from the window lit up the darkness behind me.
“Hey, sugar tits,” he hummed, his glare hinged on where my chest was popping out of my leather jacket before he tapped two fingers against his vest. “Next time, aim for the head.”
He yanked harder and my grip on the fence gave out.
I slid down, cringing when I felt my pump graze against one of the links.
I landed chest to chest, my ankle twisting and causing me to topple forward.
He caught me by the waist and walked me backwards until I was pressed up against the closest building.
Then he lowered his mouth to my cheek and whispered, “Five…”