Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“You’re allotted three shots, Grace. Two center mass, one in the right temple.”
The fuckin’ fuck!
They wanted Grace to hit a target in two exact places from a mile and a half away…with that piece of shit?
Spectre fell silent to allow them to concentrate.
Grace reached behind his back, knowing Mirage was there, and handed him the spotter scope. He kneeled behind Grace instead of beside him—where a spotter should be positioned—and put his eye to the lens.
There were customers seated at nearby tables that Mirage didn’t want to end up as collateral damage.
If this was their test, killing an innocent bystander would probably be considered a failure.
“Eleven minutes, thirty-two seconds,” Spectre informed.
Mirage watched Grace’s six in his peripheral—despite Spectre doing the same through a satellite feed—all while keeping their target in sight.
Mirage counted Berkowitz’s subtle movements.
Headshots were the worst target for even the best sniper.
Mirage had to finely time the way their target turned, nodded, or tilted his head as he conversed with the men around him. The intervals between the sips of his drink before he put his cigar between his lips. Counting his inhalations and exhalations.
During their time of extensive training, Mirage had melded into the role of analyzing and providing computational support for his partner.
His mind was so enhanced he could calculate almost as fast as an arithmetic logic CPU while he quickly assessed the best position to protect innocents from potential ricochets.
Grace was waiting for the coordinates. Mirage knew his partner wouldn’t move until he gave the go.
“Target on berm, aim left edge.” Mirage was so close his lips brushed Grace’s earlobe.
“On,” Grace murmured.
“Range 2690, 0.4 left, wind SW half value.”
Grace adjusted his scope in response. “Shooter ready.”
“Spotter up, negative adjustments. Hold scope.”
“Holding and standing by,” Grace gritted.
Mirage calculated the travel velocity of the bullet, then the 3.6 seconds for Berkowitz to put his cigar down and exhale the thick plume of smoke.
There was no need to wait for the fog to clear. Grace could see through it.
“Prepare to send.”
Mirage felt the intake of Grace’s breath against his chest, then made the call.
“Fire, fire,” Mirage called in rapid succession, staying clear of the jolt of Grace’s body from the recoil.
Mirage waited the split second for Berkowitz to jerk from the shock and propel backward from the impact, leaving Grace’s opening to hit the right temple.
“Fire,” Mirage commanded.
The bullet entered so precise and clean that the bullet didn’t exit, preventing brain or blood splatter.
Before either of them could turn and bolt, Spectre intercepted their retreat.
“Hold position.”
Their handler’s voice was sharp and strained, meaning whatever sudden change had been assigned, he wasn’t happy about it.
Mirage
“New target acquired,” Spectre confirmed, reversing their plan to get the fuck off the roof before the police were dispatched.
“Call it,” Mirage answered, squatting closer to Grace.
“Eliminate the bodyguard in white. I repeat, the bodyguard in the white blazer. One in the abdomen, one in the heart.”
There were two bullets left in the magazine.
Grace made a series of rapid adjustments to the weapon while Mirage calculated the best angle to hit their new target.
The top floor of the restaurant was now a scene of chaos as the customers and waitstaff scurried to get to safety.
The six remaining bodyguards were ducking with weapons drawn while searching for the direction of the shots.
Grace waited for Mirage’s new coordinates.
“Three minutes and fifty-seven seconds,” Spectre reminded them.
Spectre was able to direct and inform, but there was no way for him to help them execute.
The bodyguard in white was trying to drag Berkowitz’s lifeless body out of sight.
“Target on berm, aim left edge,” Mirage hurriedly said. “Range 2690, 1.2.1 left, wind SW half value.”
“Shooter ready,” Grace answered.
Mirage hadn’t noticed his partner adjust the scope because he’d done it so fast.
“Zero adjustments, no holds.”
Grace released a smooth exhale, and Mirage ordered the commands all in one breath.
“Fire, rotate six degrees, fire.”
Grace nailed it as Mirage knew he would.
They didn’t bother with the equipment as they bolted toward the rooftop exit.
Now, it was Spectre’s job to navigate them the hell out of there.
“Two minutes, four seconds,” he informed first.
Fuck.
The clock was ticking.
Were they really expected to run down thirty-two floors in two minutes?
They were fast, but what the fuck?
“Stay on the roof and get to the east side.”
They made a sharp right instead of exiting through the door.
“Anchors and a Deus are on the ground. Your transport’s waiting in the alley.”
Mirage assessed the straight descent into the pitch dark below.
They were supposed to rappel down four hundred and fifty feet.
“Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Mirage ground out, staring at Grace’s calm face.
“Authorities have been dispatched. Seven minutes to your location and closing.”
“This escape is a bit excessive, don’t you think? Where’s the goddamn fire?” Mirage snarled at Grace.
“Fifty-one seconds. Move,” Spectre stressed.
Grace’s lips tightened to a thin line as he gave Mirage a low growl, telling him to grow some balls and stop stalling.