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GARRISON'S CREED

GARRISON'S CREED

CHAPTER ONE

Sighting the target in his crosshairs, Cash Garrison accounted for all of the variables. Wind speed and direction. Distance and range. Now the world would be free of one more bloodthirsty warlord in less time than it would take for the walking dead man to finish his highfalutin champagne toast.

Hours had passed since Cash nestled into place, high-powered rifle held like a baby to his chest. A thousand yards out from the extravagant mansion, he’d burrowed into position, melting into the landscape, and waited for this moment. Antilla Smooth, dressed like the million dollars he made as an arms dealer and unaware of the grim reaper sighting his forehead, made his way past the French doors.

Cash caressed the trigger, knowing exactly how many pounds of pressure it would take to fire the round. He monitored his breaths and heart rate. When his entire body was still, in between beats and respirations, he’d take the bastard out. One less piece of shit strutting on God’s green Earth. The world would be a better place, and Cash’s job for the day would be done. He and the team could find a local bar, find some ladies, celebrate and make a night of it. Good plan.

He adjusted for a breeze, blinked his eyes, counted down his breaths, and—stopped. Stunned. Frozen in place. Heart pounding like a coal-eating locomotive.

A woman in a golden dress and sparkled-out jewelry that’d make royalty jealous wrapped her arm around Antilla. A soldier would sell his last bullet for a kiss from her lips. Cash saw her through his scope as though she stood a mere twenty feet in front of him.

She looked like… but it couldn’t be.

His spotter spoke the direction in his earpiece. “Send it.”

Cash spoke into his mic. “Stand by.”

His spotter whispered again. “Eyes on your target. All conditions accounted for. Go. Send it.”

Nothing. Cash didn’t speak.

Earpiece again. “Go, goddamn it.”

The woman slunk around his bull’s-eye, her beautiful hair piled on top of her head, save for the loose pieces framing her face. Her smile slipped into a laugh. I’ve inhaled gun oil fumes. I’m losing my mind right this second.

“Cash, man. You there?” His spotter grabbed his attention, wrenching him back to reality.

“Here. Yeah, man. Here.”

“Wind from three o’clock. Dropped to five mph. Hold. Target blocked.” The woman draped over the man. This was a nightmare—his nightmare—blasting from the past and slapping him clear off of his prone position and onto his stupefied ass. The spotter spoke again. “Clear. Dial wind right, two mils. Send it… now.”

Heartbeat. Breath. Heartbeat.

Fire.

And breathe.