Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
After leaving my apartment, I went directly to my warehouse to get my gear. My research was pretty straightforward. Grant wasn’t hard to find. His face has been splashed all over the internet after the collapse of his hedge funds, and it’s been all too easy to pinpoint his location.
A quick search showed he owns a home in Central LA and owns an apartment complex downtown, but considering the type of wealthy businessmen he’s pissed off and the connections they have, remaining there wasn’t an option. And after searching just a little deeper, I found an off-grid cabin owned by his family deep in the San Gabriel Mountains.
It was a no-brainer. Something I have no doubt Kiara would have been able to work out too. Though it would be awfully convenient if she hadn’t.
After figuring out the exact location of the cabin, I loaded up my rifle, deciding for this specific job and terrain, a single bullet to the head would be my quickest and easiest option. Plus, I can keep my distance without alerting Caldwell to my presence. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t always lean toward ease, but for half a million dollars, I’m not about to get my hands dirty.
I wind through the steep mountains, climbing higher as the dirt roads become more unpredictable the further I go. I don’t stop until I reach the ridge that overlooks the private cabin below, and as I peer down into the valley, trying to work out the best position to take on this job, I can’t help but appreciate the view.
The cabin is at the end of a long, private road, and if you didn’t already know it was there, you’d never be able to find it on your own. It has been in the Caldwell family for generations, and it’s more than just a cabin. It looks like a fucking ranch, much bigger than the official paperwork suggests. This property has been recently renovated, and something tells me that these changes aren’t exactly legal.
Shaking my head, I cut the engine of my Audi and grab the case beneath the passenger seat before pushing out of my car. I start walking through the mountainside, cutting through thick pine trees until I have the perfect view of the property in the valley below.
Caldwell’s black Mercedes is parked directly in front of the cabin, and I almost laugh at how easy this is going to be. How fucking dense can one man be? He’s come out here to hide but makes himself as openly obvious as possible. The least he could do is hide the Mercedes in the thick bush beside the cabin.
The majority of these LA businessmen believe they’re untouchable. They’ve become so accustomed to the power their money gives, obsessed with their public image, that when it all goes to shit, not a damn one of them knows how to protect themselves, and this right here is the perfect example.
Grant Caldwell will be dead within the next three minutes. There’s no doubt about it.
Finding a low, flat rock, I place my case down and unpack my rifle, quickly setting it up and recalibrating it to make sure it’s perfectly aligned after transport. I don’t fuck with my accuracy.
Once the rifle is good to go, I settle in flat against the dirt, my hands casually falling into place on the rifle. With one eye trained through the scope, I take in the cabin below to make sure Caldwell is alone.
I watch for any movements through the windows, scanning room to room, starting with the most common areas. Kitchen, living, and dining, before moving to the many bedrooms. I come up blank before the slightest movement in the office window makes me pause.
I only see the sleeve of his arm, and I have to take a moment to reposition myself to ensure a clean hit, and sure enough, there he is, sitting at a desk, grasping a bottle of rum by the neck and throwing it back as though he already knows he’s about to die.
My finger curls around the trigger, and just like that, a body steps directly into my view from outside the cabin, a smug grin staring back at me through my scope.
Kiara St. James.
My finger pulls away from the trigger, unable to take my shot with her directly in the path, and I watch in disbelief as she holds up her hand in a salute, only for it to quickly morph into giving me the finger.
I scoff and shake my head before pulling my phone out of my pocket and immediately dialing her number.
She answers in seconds. “Just take a slight step to your left, Firecracker. I wouldn’t want to miss.”
“Is that something you do often?” she asks, her voice low.
“Not at all,” I say, wanting to finish this. “Left, Firecracker. Now.”