Chapter 49 Lodestar
FORTY-NINE
LODESTAR
JE TE LAISSERAI DES MOTS - PATRICK WATSON
I didn’t like to admit it, but my back was killing me. So were my hips.
The last time I’d been in this position, I’d been on top of the old Sinners’ clubhouse and a fucking bomb had me soaring through the air like I was Tinkerbell without the wings.
I wasn’t keen on a repeat, not after all those goddamn months in casts.
Despite the ache and my position, there were many things that weren’t the same as that last occasion when I’d had my hands on a sniper rifle.
One: the location.
Not only was I not in New Jersey, but NYC; I was also on top of a skyscraper.
The wind chill up here wasn’t making the aches in my bones any better, either.
Two: my nerves.
Last time, I’d been invested in making sure that the Sinners weren’t hurt.
Now, I was, in a word, shitting myself.
Nerves made my palms slick, and when you were handling this much firepower, that didn’t bode well.
I wasn’t perfect. I knew my flaws, and it was one of the reasons why I never tied myself to a man—I didn’t expect anyone to have to deal with me. I hated making mistakes, but that didn’t mean they didn’t happen.
Usually, when they did, they were fucking doozies.
Sucking in a breath as I thought about how my plans had gone awry, I peered through my sights and scoped out the area.
In the near distance, Yankee Stadium was slumbering because baseball wasn’t in season, but that didn’t mean the rest of the city was asleep.
I hated this fucking place.
New York could bite my ass and I wouldn’t mind.
Perched atop a skyscraper how I was, my hatred for the city was only growing.
One thing the CIA didn’t erase from my personality—a distaste for heights.
I wasn’t just high right now. My feet were so far from the ground even birds would start getting queasy.
“Just don’t look down,” I whispered under my breath. “Across. Not down.”
Forcing myself to calm, telling myself to woman up, I waited.
And I waited.
And I goddamn waited.
Time ticked slowly as I scoped the area, making sweeps as I scanned the buildings around me, finding it bizarrely easy to fall back into the habit of not feeling the cold, of controlling my heart rate.
After one such sweep, that was when I saw him.
And that was when I placed my finger on the trigger.
Floppy black hair that looked soft to the touch. Smile lines at the sides of his eyes. A hard jaw that spoke of his obstinate nature. And damn, aCooooig was packing. Beneath his shirt, I could see the abs that peeped through the fabric.
Like he could sense my gaze on him, he turned away from the kitchen where he was talking to his brother’s wife and stared out of the window.
My heart surged into my throat.
He stood there, his torso the perfect target.
Not moving.
I could do this.
At this height and distance, I had no markers, so I was going in blind.
I glanced around the area, trying to find any signs that would key me in on wind speed, but I knew, as with all these things, you had to go with your gut.
I found my target once again.
God, time—I was running out of it.
Milliseconds slipped through my fingers, heartbeats passed. I squinted against the sights and set the crosshairs in place.
I pulled the trigger.
Are you ready for RACHEL?