End Game (Will Robie 5)

That had been the only thing keeping him going through his rehabilitation.

Yet when he’d been released from rehab, Jessica Reel had not been there. No calls. No e-mails. No texts. Nothing.

So much for being unbeatable together.

They’d obviously been meaningless words.

He landed back in DC and went immediately to his apartment, a nondescript space in an unremarkable building near Dupont Circle.

Robie had nothing of a personal nature in his apartment.

And that was when he saw it.

The envelope on his bed.

There was no writing on it.

It had not been there when he had left for London.

Robie’s first instincts were defensive. He slipped the gun from its holster and held it at the ready.

He gripped the envelope with his free hand and shook the letter out.

It was one page folded over.

The handwriting was one he was familiar with.

The words were few and still managed to cut through him like the KM2000 had through neck arteries back in London.

It’s complicated. I’m sorry. JR

Robie put his gun away and folded the letter back over and placed it in his pocket.

He walked over to the window.

It was dark now and the rain had started. With the inclement weather he could be back in London.

Yet this was a perfect time for Robie to take a walk. He didn’t like crowds. And right now he was in no mood for sunny and fair weather.

He made his way along his favorite route, which led him to Memorial Bridge. Arlington National Cemetery was across the bridge, and the Lincoln Memorial was behind him. He stood by the rampart and looked down at the waters of the Potomac.

The river was flowing far more freely than his thoughts.

What exactly did she mean by “It’s complicated”? They both knew everything about their lives was complicated. So what had changed between Mississippi and the note being left on his bed?

He looked around.

The last time he had been here, Blue Man had appeared out of the darkness and given him some much-needed advice. Robie could always count on Blue Man. He always told him not what he wanted to hear, but what he needed to hear.

As if on cue a figure appeared out of the darkness.

Only this time it wasn’t Blue Man.

Robie’s gun came out and he pointed it at the approaching figure.

The person stopped.

“They told me you might be here.”

“Who are you?” asked Robie.

Drawing closer, the person was illuminated by the lights on the bridge.

It was a woman.

But it was not Jessica Reel.

“I know you,” said Robie, peering at her.

She nodded. “I work with Blue Man.”

Robie looked around. “Where is he? Why did he send you?”

“He didn’t. I mean, he couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because Blue Man has disappeared.”

Chapter

4

SAND.

And not from a fun day at the beach.

It was in your mouth, your lungs, and your nose.

And possibly in your dreams.

Or here, more likely, in your nightmares.

Gritty, omnipresent, there was no way to avoid it.

Jessica Reel was using a tactical scout sniper periscope to safely get eyes on those she would later try to kill.

Iraq looked like Iraq had ten years ago, at least to her. Buildings were reduced to rubble, people were dying violently. Armies massed and attacked, and terrorists counterattacked, deploying an array of weapons either stolen or bought from countries around the world.

Everything was for shit here, although the politicians tried to put a positive spin on it all. Or blame others after the spin no longer worked.

Right now, the fighting was divided neatly into urban and desert.

Reel wasn’t sure which she preferred. Urban was more complicated and potentially more lethal. One wrong step and a hidden IED takes you away from life in a millisecond. Or someone you thought was an ally confronts you with a C4 suicide pack strapped around his waist. Or a kid hiding a gun under his shirt walks up to you asking for candy, and you have a single moment to decide whether to kill him or not.

In the desert there was nothing between you and them except sand either flat or with some height. And killing from long range could come at any moment. Reel knew this for a fact, currently being a major source of her country’s long-range kills.

She lowered the periscope and made some notes in her DOPE (data of previous engagements) book. In it she had made references and notes on every shot she had fired during this deployment. All the hits and the rare misses.

She learned the most from the misses.

She was part of a fifteen-person team that had only two snipers, of which she was one. She was also the only female in the group. They didn’t care that she could run three miles in under eighteen minutes or that she could do twenty or more dead-hang pull-ups or perform two hundred crunches in four minutes. That was what the Marines required at their sniper school. Years ago Reel had passed every test there and been the first female candidate to complete the course successfully.

They only cared whether she could do her job, which meant pulling the trigger and eliminating someone on the other team whose only goal was to kill Reel and her team.

Still, there had been some grumbling about her from some of the men, mostly the younger ones. Younger ones these days were those barely freed from their teens. After the first two days when Reel had laid down nine out of nine targets, the grumbling had mysteriously vanished. And she was suddenly one of the guys.

Every member of the team was only about one thing: the mission.

The second unspoken goal, but of no less importance to all of them, was survival. None of them wanted to die in the desert. All of them wanted to get back home.

Reel included, though she really had no home to go back to.

And a sniper who could consistently kill people trying to kill you was a valuable friend indeed.

Tikrit, Ramadi, Fallujah, and finally Mosul had been taken back from the enemy. Although, like putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, it was proving nearly impossible to make the situation right. The terrorists had had a long time to inflict maximum destruction on these cities and the people living there. Most of the places were simply uninhabitable, because basic things like water and sewage lines were no longer operating and electrical power was spotty at best. And added to that the cities were still filled with hidden explosives and other death traps.

But rebuilding was not Reel’s job. Her mission was to kill as many of the enemy as she could. That could be her only focus.

Her group consisted of Americans, Brits, French, Australians, and two Iraqi force members who still looked at her with unfriendly eyes, even though she could outshoot and outwork both of them. And maybe that was why they looked at her the way they did, other than her being a woman—which in this part of the world was disqualifying for most occupations, and certainly one that required wielding a gun.