Slow Heat by Lorie O'Clare

of it existed only in his memory, and nowhere else. It hadn’t been hard to change his birth certificate, his Social Security card, and all other recorded history so there wouldn’t be a paper trail, or any other kind of trail. Micah and his father and uncle could disappear better than any U.S. marshal could do the job. At the age of twenty-three, Micah was on his third first and last name. To the best of his knowledge, Micah Mulligan was his real name; not that there was any proof of that anywhere. Nothing about his past could be proved.
    “Ready?” Greg asked.
    “Bring it on,” he said quietly.
    Micah shoved his past back in the dark crevices of his brain where it belonged and gripped his gun, caressing the trigger as the whooshing sound of the mannequins coming toward the door grew closer. The door opened.
    It was kill or be killed. This reenactment wasn’t a gun for hire. This wasn’t about ending someone else’s life because that person didn’t deserve to live. No one had argued that the world would be a better place if these men were killed.
    London and Natasha had fought for their lives in that garage. They’d survived. The men who had been shot would have killed them in cold blood. Micah moved into the position as London had described it and watched the light appear from the other side of the door as it opened.
    He waited. The gun was hard and solid in his hand. His fingers were wrapped around it. The cool metal was smooth against his fingertips. He remained relaxed. The secret to a quick assassination was not allowing his body to tense. Keep a clear head and never allow the actions around him to become a blur. Precise movement would be needed. If he remained relaxed, it was always a lot easier to leap in whatever direction was needed. Relaxed and focused. So many didn’t realize how incredibly easy it was to be a killer.
    The door opened farther still. Micah caught a glimpse of the cream-colored plastic of the first mannequin’s leg. He leaned forward, aimed, and fired.
    It didn’t collapse to the ground as a person would. Instead it swung slightly from the impact of the bullet. There were only seconds. Four against one were horrific odds unless he made his mark each time.
    Micah hadn’t missed a target in ten years.
    He fired again, leaning forward. Once the light hit him he was an easy target. But with bodies to trip over, the shock of blood, and the element of surprise in his favor, Micah pictured the mannequins as humans, toppling over one another to their deaths, and continued firing. With each shot he moved into his targets, needing the new angles to hit his next mark.
    Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
    In less than a minute four mannequins were “dead.”
    The gun didn’t have much of a kick but he felt it jerk as he fired. It was enough to send the rush through him that he’d often embraced after eliminating a target. Bloodlust was a terrible distraction. He now saw it as the creeping claws of an addiction, a craving to do it again. Kill, no catch.
    *   *   *
    “You impress the hell out of me,” Ben said after all of them had returned to the kitchen. “Did you kill all those men as fast as Micah shot those mannequins?” he asked London.
    “I didn’t time it.” London had a relaxed smile and seemed at ease in the small kitchen with all of them standing around. She remained next to her husband, who gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze when she kept talking. “It’s something I hope never to live through again, although you can reenact it all you want. I’m flattered that you think it is worth trying to imitate. All I did was act on instinct. I didn’t feel like dying.”
    “It’s a damn good thing you didn’t,” Marc said, pulling her into his arms.
    “I know. I had to rescue all of you.”
    Greg and Haley laughed along with Marc.
    “You didn’t rescue me,” he told her. When his wife looked up at him, appearing as if she might say more, Marc added, “I got to play in a Jacuzzi