He descended from his roost in the tall oak tree, collapsed his rifle, put it in his case, then slung the case over his back as he walked across the driveway and up the short flight of stairs to where he could better view the body behind the hedge. He had on a Kevlar vest, neck gear, a helmet, goggles. Not only to avoid being identified by a neighbor, but Granger was a marshal; he might have fired back.

He was dead; Nelson was certain as he stared at the body slumped against the house. But he put a bullet in Granger’s head on the off chance that he wasn’t. He hadn’t known the man; it was better that way. Nelson didn’t like killing men he knew personally. But he had learned Granger’s routine, schedule. He knew the man was well trained, and had to wait for a successful kill. He’d had two previous opportunities where he’d walked away because they weren’t perfect. Nelson didn’t want to be caught or killed.

Nelson heard a faint noise, listened more carefully, realized it was a phone. He looked carefully and saw Granger’s phone under the bushes, the screen up, dimly lit.

Dammit. The man had called 911. Nelson didn’t have much time.

He grabbed the briefcase that Granger had dropped on the doorstep, then ran down the steps and around to the bush. He had to get on all fours to reach under and extract the phone. Immediately, he ended the call, cutting off the voice of the dispatcher. Working quickly, he shut off the phone, pulled out a faraday bag, and slipped the phone inside to block all tracking. He would turn the device over to his employer for analysis. There might be information from the phone that they could use, once they removed GPS tracking.

Nelson walked briskly away from the house. The man was dead; he had the documents and his phone; as soon as he turned them over, he would be paid the second half of his fee.

A hefty price because of the tight deadline.

“He has to be dead by eight Monday morning. Any means necessary. Collect the documents.”

And so it was done.

When his money was in hand, Nelson would return to his South Carolina retreat and wait for another call, another job. That might be a day or a month. Could even be a year.

But inevitably they’d call, and he would come. Nelson Lee owed his life to his employer; they owned him until the day he died.

Don’t be left on the edge-of-your-seat and pick up your copy!

Available from MIRA January 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Allison Brennan