But first, he had to fucking focus on the actions—which he’d performed hundreds of times—not the stakes. If he thought about the consequences for fucking up, he’d never succeed.
Dragging in one more breath, One-Mile forcibly cleared his mind to steady himself and froze, hyper-focused. He didn’t blink or hesitate. And he definitely didn’t let Montilla climb on top of the girl. He merely curled his finger around the trigger and squeezed.
Through the scope, he watched the asshole for the pure thrill, but he didn’t need to wait the fraction of a second it took for the bullet to plow into the fucker’s temple to know he’d hit his mark. It was done.
Montilla was finally dead.
As the drug lord crumpled to the ground and the redhead screamed, One-Mile closed the window and packed up his equipment with an economy of movement, hurrying without rushing. When he was done, he slung everything on his back, wiped every surface he’d touched clean, pulled his hoodie over his face again, and trotted down to the lobby. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, he bypassed the people scurrying and clustering around the bordello, ducked out the hotel’s back entrance, then disappeared down an alley and into the rain once again driving.
He didn’t mind getting drenched now. Tomorrow, there would be sunlight because tomorrow there would be Brea.
Saturday, January 10
Comfort, Texas
Brea dabbed at her happy tears as she watched Cutter dance with his new bride. After a touching ceremony in Shealyn’s grandparents’ barn that seemed so quintessentially small-town Texas, they clung together under fairy lights and swayed to Ed Sheeran, blocking out the rest of the world inside their bubble of happiness. It was probably a good skill since the press continued to hound them. But for this moment they looked ecstatic.
Hard to believe that, after their two-week Maui honeymoon at the Sunshine Coast Bed-and-Breakfast, Cutter would be moving to California with his new wife.
Brea was both happy for her best friend and beyond sad that he’d be leaving her. It added an extra pall over her despair.
Nearly a month had passed since she’d last seen or heard from Pierce.
This morning, a news report had claimed Emilo Montilla had been shot dead last night in a bordello in Mexico City by an unknown assailant. After hearing the report, she’d brimmed with hope. While Brea wouldn’t celebrate any person’s death…she didn’t mourn the drug lord’s loss. All day, she’d waited for a call or message from Pierce that he was coming home safely to her.
But the hours had dragged by without any word. By afternoon, worry had set in. As preparations for the wedding continued and the guys from EM Security had rolled in before the ceremony, she’d asked Logan if he’d heard from Pierce. He’d given her a regretful shake of his head and a few well-meaning words. By sundown, her worry had contorted into thick dread.
A man like Montilla probably had a lot of enemies. His death didn’t mean Pierce had been the one to kill him. Someone else could easily have ended the terrible man’s reign of terror…while her man lay rotting in an underground compound or a shallow grave somewhere.
Brea tried to shake off all the destructive what-ifs and worries, but it was useless. If Pierce hadn’t surfaced in the twenty-four hours since Montilla’s death, she feared there was an awful reason.
She dabbed at more tears.
“You okay?” Cage asked, slipping a brotherly arm around her.
She tried to smile. “Sure. How about you? I know you were expecting to see Karis here.”
“Yeah.” He sounded down.
“Do you know why she didn’t come?”
Cage sent a sideways glance to Karis’s sister, Jolie Powell, who stood with her husband Heath. “They said she suddenly caught a cold.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
“It’s possible…but no,” he grumbled.
Gossip said Cage and Karis had rung in the New Year together—naked, tequila-soaked, and oblivious to their screams and groans keeping the neighbors awake. She’d been aloof since.
Cage was a good guy, and Karis would be a fool to pass him up.
Brea tried to give him an encouraging smile. “I doubt she’s avoiding you.”
“I know she is. She’s made that perfectly clear.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure.” Brea scrambled for a topic. “Ever think you’d have a TV star for a sister-in-law?”
“No. Honestly, it’s kind of weird. I got off shift a few days back and some reporter was waiting at my truck, asking my opinion about my brother’s upcoming wedding, the bride, their future…and climate change.”
Brea managed to laugh. “I’ll bet you’ve perfected the ‘no comment’ response by now. I sure have. Not that what I say matters. Even when I’ve corrected them, those tabloid rags are determined to push the story that I’m Cutter’s something on the side.”
“Of course. It’s juicier if he’s marrying one of People’s Most Beautiful People while flaunting his pretty baby mama under her nose.”