Killer Countdown (Man on a Mission 6)

“I’ve got Niall. I don’t need you.”

Hurt flashed in and out of her eyes so quickly he thought he must have imagined it. Then her face turned stony. “Fine.” Her lips barely moved. “You win again, Shane.” She pulled free from his grasp and ran into the bedroom. Then he heard the unmistakable click of the door lock.

He stared at the locked door for a moment, pain clawing through him like a wild thing. Carly didn’t understand. If anything happened to her, the sniper might as well put a bullet through him, as well, because his life would effectively be over.

Just tell her, an insidious little voice in the back of his skull whispered. You may never have another chance.

Shane moved to the door and placed his palm flat against it, as if he could touch Carly through the barrier. “No,” he whispered, fighting the temptation. He couldn’t tell Carly he loved her, then deliberately put himself in harm’s way. I’ll be damned before I’ll hurt her the way Jack did. It wasn’t the same situation—he wasn’t committing suicide, leaving Carly to pick up the pieces of her shattered life alone—but it was close enough. If something went wrong, Carly wasn’t going to have deal with the death of another man who’d professed to love her. Not happening, he told himself silently. Not. Happening.

There was a sharp rap at the front door, and Shane glanced at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. He and Niall had arranged to go to the university together, early, and his brother was nothing if not precisely on time.

* * *

The doors to Adams Hall weren’t open to the public yet, but a locked door had never stopped Marsh. He retrieved his already-assembled AS50 well before one, but left the case inside. He wouldn’t need it. With an economy of motion he moved into place in the corner of the balcony, the spot nearest to the staircase he’d decided would be perfect to accomplish this job and escape capture. One without the other would be meaningless to him.

He removed his raincoat and laid it to one side. The raincoat would conceal the rifle until he was ready to use it. He fit the rifle in the curve of his shoulder and sighted down the scope, taking careful aim at the lectern that—as he’d expected—had been set up near the front of the stage, off to one side. Also as he’d expected, from this vantage point he had a clear shot.

The rifle felt a little off, and with a tiny frown Marsh double-checked, but yes, it was still loaded. He was going to remove the cartridges to be sure, but the sound of footsteps on the stage made him quickly and surreptitiously move into the shadows as a man and woman walked out. He watched as the two people placed five name tents on the table, then arranged water glasses and what appeared to be pads of paper and writing utensils on the table in front of each chair.

“We’ll put out fresh water right before we start,” the woman said, her voice echoing in the empty hall as she and the man left.

Marsh waited for five minutes, until he was sure the couple wouldn’t return. Then he sighted through the scope again, reading the name tents on the table. Bingo! There was the senator’s name on the far right. Which meant he might not need to wait for him to speak at the lectern after all. He’d have to play it by ear, but if the opportunity arose, he’d take it.

He slung the rifle’s strap over his shoulder, then put his raincoat back on. For the next few minutes he practiced shrugging the raincoat off, lifting the rifle and fitting it into his shoulder, all in one motion, then taking the shot. Again and again. Both at the table and at the lectern.

Precision was his goal. Precision, practice and careful planning, all of which he’d learned in the military. All of which was how he’d avoided prison all these years.

He rehearsed the next steps in his mind. Drop the rifle as soon as the shot is taken. The crowd will be screaming, confused, rushing to get out before they become targets, too. Join the frantic melee on the staircase, one of the escaping crowd. Then out the door, using the crowd as a shield. Toss the gloves, but not in the nearest Dumpster, the one behind the student union  . Then walk calmly to the parking lot. Retrieve your truck. Drive sedately off the campus, across the Potomac and safely home in Virginia.