Chapter One from ONE SHOT, TWO KILLS 

Sierra Leone

Kenya Alexikova tossed her dog tags onto the chopper’s seat. If the mission failed, no one would retrieve her body. Or her spotter’s. They’d rot in the jungle, forgotten soldiers in open graves.

The hypnotic purr of the Hughes 500P set the tone for the operation. Black. In every sense of the word. Sound, movement, light. All kept to a minimum.

The pilot threaded the river bed using the narrow view provided by the FLIR—forward-looking infrared camera—mounted near the skids. Flying into a thick jungle on a pitch black night was far from optimal, but their intel was time sensitive. Faceless, nameless, and almost impossible to trace, their target would arrive at dawn. They had to be in position, make the kill in one shot.

“Two minutes, Hedeon.” The pilot’s voice vibrated in her ear piece, his use of her code name jolting her adrenaline.

She triple-checked her gear, then met Walt’s dark gaze. Tension hid in the cracks of her spotter’s camo-painted face. Dammit, he was nervous. She should have insisted he stay home.

“Think of this as great training for those 3 a.m. feedings,” Kenya said.

“Laila will be the one manning the nursery. I need my beauty sleep.”

“You’re real brave when your wife is three thousand miles away.”

He laughed. “Yeah, she’s a real spitfire, isn’t she? Hope my son gets her spunk.”

“You mean, your daughter—”

The chopper dipped suddenly, rocketing her stomach into her throat. They were close to the insertion point—a small clearing in the triple canopy jungle.

She didn’t envy the pilot. The FLIR system made a blade of grass look as big as a tree. But she had to trust him to do his job and focus on hers.

Sweat coated her back. Her body tingled. Alive, awake, adrenalized.

“Ten seconds,” the pilot warned.

The Hughes hovered two feet above the clearing, vibrating like an old washing machine. She nodded to Walt. They jumped out and sprinted away from the chopper. Debris kicked up from the rotor wash, making it near impossible to see. They dove for cover under the nearby bush. Breathing heavily, she scanned the area for movement.

Nothing.

As the chopper faded into the distance, the sliver of moon highlighted its peculiar silhouette—an extra main rotor blade, a tail rotor with blades in an odd scissored configuration, and the big muffler on the rear fuselage—all modifications for stealth.

Crickets chirped, water gurgled from the nearby riverbed, and the ominous roar of a hippo penetrated the night. The bulky beasts might be vegans, but disturb their territory and their powerful jaws would snap you in half.

She checked her compass, signaled Walt, and headed into the triple-canopy foliage. They had sixty minutes to position themselves overlooking the inlet where the meet was supposed to take place. Gotta get moving.

The throbbing in her trigger finger disturbed her. Unlike most joints that had been broken, weather didn’t affect it. Her finger only pained when something bad was about to happen, like a built-in early-warning signal. But she couldn’t afford superstition or doubt today. Not on this mission. Not with this target. Not with this much at stake.

No one knew the target’s face or real name, but his alias was Afanasi—meaning immortal or eternal. The Russian arms dealer obviously had a healthy ego. But what concerned HQ the most was the trail of bodies in his wake. Bastard had inside information that he was using to systematically execute undercover CIA agents in the Russian sphere. The bloodletting had to stop or that dormant cold war could heat up again. Her hands tightened on her M24 SWS. No matter how American she wanted to be, her name revealed her heritage. Alexikova. As Russian as Smirnoff.

A sound. Movement in the bushes. She froze. What the hell? Afanasi was known for his attention to detail. Had he sent a recon team in to clear the area?

She glanced over her shoulder. Walt’s solid frame crouched in the bush two feet behind her. The vegetation beside him swayed in the cool breeze.

Silence. A mosquito tiptoed along her neck and planted into her skin. She ignored the sting as it sucked her blood. A branch snapped. She flicked off the safety on her rifle.

Crunching footsteps. A shrill cry. She scanned right, left.

Movement in front of them.

Her finger hovered over the trigger.

Footsteps.

A porcupine scurried across their ingress route, its quills fully erect.

Dammit to hell.

She exhaled a long, silent breath and flashed a quick smile at Walt. He fingered the rabbit’s foot around his neck and nodded. In their line of business, a lot of operatives banked on good luck charms. She preferred to rely on her instincts.

They continued scouting the path, moving cautiously in the bleak light. A faint reflection in the distance thrust her heart into gear. They’d arrived at the shoreline where Afanasi would conclude the arms deal. Inky water crashed against the rocks, splashing white foam into the air. She paused and scoured the area. No sign of life.

Preparing the two hides was hard work. The earth was thick, muddy, heavy. But they worked efficiently, setting up their temporary digs like an old married couple who could finish each other sentences. They cloaked themselves in shrubbery and settled into their respective hides to wait.

Dampness seeped into her BDUs and mixed with sweat, leaving her skin clammy and cold. A tiny shiver shuddered across her shoulders. The world was unnaturally still, quiet—like death had already arrived. Precise, measured, she nestled her rifle into the overhang. Her breathing slowed. She stared through the telescopic sight.

Twenty minutes to spare and they were positioned for action. She pursed her lips, the familiar taste of camo grease comforting her.

A soft hiss sounded in her ear.

“Comfy?” Walt asked on their sub-vocal radio.

She scanned the area where his hide was located, but couldn’t detect his precise location. He was stiller than a bronze statue.

“Mine’s better than my living room.”

“Wouldn’t be hard.”

“Screw you. Double or nothing, it’s a girl.” Kenya wanted to win their wager.

“You can’t afford to lose.” Walt’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it that she hadn’t heard before.

“Hey, how about—”

A motor droned in the distance. She spotted the incoming boat in her sight.

“Approaching.” Her whisper was barely audible. They had to assume Afanasi had a sniper hidden on the other side of the bank. Double-crosses dominated his life. Paranoia kept him alive.

A thirty-six-foot Donzi hammered straight for them, the powerful inboard outboard engine torpedoing the ocean-racing hull through the waves. The distance made it difficult to distinguish his features, but the tall figure in the passenger side had to be him. He wore his trademark black monk shirt, like a modern-day Rasputin.

Anticipation shot through her veins. They’d be the first to see his face. And the last.

“Crosswind seven point five klicks an hour.” Walt’s baritone calmed her. “Four centimeter drop. Five hundred meters.”

The numbers correlated perfectly with her calculations.

Breathing deeply she focused on the target’s face. Closer, closer—Afanasi’s identity was about to be revealed. Come on, bastard, let’s see what kind of animal you are. Her finger hovered on the trigger.

She blinked.

“Clear,” Walt said.

She swallowed, but her mouth was Sahara dry.

“Engage.”

Her trigger finger trembled.

“Do it.”

But she couldn’t.

Shock ricocheted down her spine as she recognized the face in her crosshairs.

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