docks and leapt, turning the drop beyond the sea wall into a dive that carried her beneath the warm water and to relative safety, out of reach of the sniper’s bullets.
She swam along the ocean floor, using rocks and chunks of old concrete to pull herself toward the powerboat. When she reached the boat’s anchor, she looked up and could see the long, narrow vessel bobbing in the afternoon sun. She could also see the sniper. He was pacing back and forth on the boat, the rifle aimed toward the shore and the handful of onlookers that had started to peek out of their condominiums. It was only a matter of time before he either ran or started shooting. If he started pulling the trigger, it would become a slaughterhouse on the six o’clock news.
Smoak swam beneath the boat and rose on the far side without a sound, one knife clutched in her right hand. She stretched her left hand along the side of the boat until she could reach the gunwale and she pulled, sliding up the boat’s hull until she could see inside. The sniper knelt on the starboard side, his rifle balanced on the hull. He was watching through his scope and sucking on a can of cheap beer.
Smoak put her blade in her teeth and pulled with both arms until she was crouched on the port side of the boat just a few feet behind the sniper. She took the knife out of her teeth, drew her second one and cleared her throat.
The sniper spun around in surprise, almost dropping his rifle. “I thought I shot you when you hit the water,” he said. “Why aren’t you dead?” He eyed Smoak as if weighing his odds against the slightly smaller woman.
“Because you’re a terrible shot,” Smoak replied. “You have five seconds to raise your hands and surrender to the authorities.”
“If I’m caught, it’s the death penalty. I killed a cop,” the sniper said.
Smoak watched his right hand slide towards the pistol at his hip. “Three seconds.”
“If they don’t kill me, Gregor will,” the man tried.
“Two seconds.”
“I’m not going down like that,” he said.
“Zero.”
He reached for his pistol, a smooth draw with a practiced hand. The Glock may as well have been a mile away. Smoak’s blades hissed through the air and passed through his neck as if it was paper, almost removing his head from his spine. Arterial red sprayed across the boat, and he slumped, falling into unconsciousness in a handful of seconds.
“Nobody ever listens,” Smoak muttered. “Death isn’t actually preferable to prison. Hell is forever.”
She cleaned her knives on a towel she found in the boat then climbed out and made her way down the dock. When she reached the car-park, half a dozen police cars were arriving along with the Miami-Dade SWAT unit. Smoak sighed and pulled her Military ID from her pocket, not looking forward to the questions that would follow and possibly even involve Chandler. If she wound up owing him another favor, she might slit her own wrists.
The noon sun faded into a stormy afternoon while Smoak waited for the police to finish their investigation. She was sitting on the hood of a Ford cruiser, ignoring the third detective who’d come over to review her statement, when she spotted fiery red hair in the crowd beyond the police tape. She stood up to get a better look and spotted Blaze, standing near the tape, arguing with a patrolman who was refusing to let past. She was wearing jeans and a tank top instead of a mini dress, but she was unmistakable in the crowd of tourists and rubberneckers.
“Ms. MacKenna, will you please get down? That’s state property you’re denting.”
“Sure, Barney, I’ve got shit to do,” Smoak replied. “Go tell your lieutenant I’m not repeating myself, and if he has any more dumbass questions, he can call Chandler.”
She stepped off the car and made her way toward the tape and where Blaze was standing. Blaze saw her and waved, a puzzled look on her face. Smoak waved back and stopped opposite her.
“Hey,
She swam along the ocean floor, using rocks and chunks of old concrete to pull herself toward the powerboat. When she reached the boat’s anchor, she looked up and could see the long, narrow vessel bobbing in the afternoon sun. She could also see the sniper. He was pacing back and forth on the boat, the rifle aimed toward the shore and the handful of onlookers that had started to peek out of their condominiums. It was only a matter of time before he either ran or started shooting. If he started pulling the trigger, it would become a slaughterhouse on the six o’clock news.
Smoak swam beneath the boat and rose on the far side without a sound, one knife clutched in her right hand. She stretched her left hand along the side of the boat until she could reach the gunwale and she pulled, sliding up the boat’s hull until she could see inside. The sniper knelt on the starboard side, his rifle balanced on the hull. He was watching through his scope and sucking on a can of cheap beer.
Smoak put her blade in her teeth and pulled with both arms until she was crouched on the port side of the boat just a few feet behind the sniper. She took the knife out of her teeth, drew her second one and cleared her throat.
The sniper spun around in surprise, almost dropping his rifle. “I thought I shot you when you hit the water,” he said. “Why aren’t you dead?” He eyed Smoak as if weighing his odds against the slightly smaller woman.
“Because you’re a terrible shot,” Smoak replied. “You have five seconds to raise your hands and surrender to the authorities.”
“If I’m caught, it’s the death penalty. I killed a cop,” the sniper said.
Smoak watched his right hand slide towards the pistol at his hip. “Three seconds.”
“If they don’t kill me, Gregor will,” the man tried.
“Two seconds.”
“I’m not going down like that,” he said.
“Zero.”
He reached for his pistol, a smooth draw with a practiced hand. The Glock may as well have been a mile away. Smoak’s blades hissed through the air and passed through his neck as if it was paper, almost removing his head from his spine. Arterial red sprayed across the boat, and he slumped, falling into unconsciousness in a handful of seconds.
“Nobody ever listens,” Smoak muttered. “Death isn’t actually preferable to prison. Hell is forever.”
She cleaned her knives on a towel she found in the boat then climbed out and made her way down the dock. When she reached the car-park, half a dozen police cars were arriving along with the Miami-Dade SWAT unit. Smoak sighed and pulled her Military ID from her pocket, not looking forward to the questions that would follow and possibly even involve Chandler. If she wound up owing him another favor, she might slit her own wrists.
The noon sun faded into a stormy afternoon while Smoak waited for the police to finish their investigation. She was sitting on the hood of a Ford cruiser, ignoring the third detective who’d come over to review her statement, when she spotted fiery red hair in the crowd beyond the police tape. She stood up to get a better look and spotted Blaze, standing near the tape, arguing with a patrolman who was refusing to let past. She was wearing jeans and a tank top instead of a mini dress, but she was unmistakable in the crowd of tourists and rubberneckers.
“Ms. MacKenna, will you please get down? That’s state property you’re denting.”
“Sure, Barney, I’ve got shit to do,” Smoak replied. “Go tell your lieutenant I’m not repeating myself, and if he has any more dumbass questions, he can call Chandler.”
She stepped off the car and made her way toward the tape and where Blaze was standing. Blaze saw her and waved, a puzzled look on her face. Smoak waved back and stopped opposite her.
“Hey,
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