Aaron hadn’t yet had the angle for a clean kill.

Juan had confirmed he had target.

Nick gave him the go.

The crack of a high-powered rifle had shattered the early workday morning, but it hadn’t been Juan’s rifle. Or Aaron’s. Or Nick’s.

One second to the next, just like that, everything had gone to shit.

Her focus had darted from rooftop to rooftop to window to balcony, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing, searching for what she’d missed, for what they’d all missed in the long hours leading up to the rendezvous.

A blink, a heartbeat, and bad had turned to massacre.

The van reached the patio.

Masked men leapt out, grabbed target and accomplice, pulled both in.

The rapid staccato of an automatic weapon replied.

People scattered. Glass shattered.

In her earpiece, chaos followed.

Nick and Aaron spoke over each other.

Another barrage of firepower followed and her brain pulled in each new piece of information, processing the details like an algebraic equation, canceling out on one side to cancel on the other.

She found a muzzle peering between curtains behind a flower box.

She called out coordinates.

A rifle report answered in place of words.

Shadow distracted her.

Movement below a rooftop ridge caught her eye.

Her brain circled for x. In her ear Nick grunted, and with that grunt, her stomach clenched and the whole of her screamed in protest.

Across the square a shadow moved within a window.

Another report rang out.

The van peeled away.

A barrage of bullets rained down on it, first toward the tires, then the driver’s door, then the windshield, round after round ricocheting off.

She tracked the weapon fire.

Nick said, “Kilo, take coms.”

Pain and struggle filled his voice. He’d been hit, was hurt bad.

Her throat closed, and she fought to breathe.

Nick had wanted her where she’d have a bird’s-eye view and she’d watched it all, impotent, powerless, disbelieving. She was useless here, she had to move.

She crawled away from the ledge and angled for the hatch.

He said, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He couldn’t see her. Hadn’t heard her. He just knew her that goddamn well.

She continued the backward crawl.

He said, “Get me eyes now.”

His words were raspy, like he was repositioning himself and fighting for air.

She hated him, hated his stupid stubborn loyalty, and crawled back for the ledge, because that was what he wanted.

Tires squealed. The van turned a hard corner.

Target was gone.

The man on the patio lay dead beside the table, blood from a head wound pooling between chairs. The square went silent.

Beginning to end, it’d been forty-five seconds, sixty at most.

She called for status.

Nick was silent. Juan silent.

Aaron answered. Of course it’d be Aaron who fucking answered.