Free Dark Hunger by Rita Herron Page B

be noticed. He had to focus. Couldn’t make any mistakes today. Couldn’t get caught. Had to be invisible.
    Dry leaves crunched beneath his boots as he walked to the inn. A damn vulture circled above, as if watching, waiting for someone to die.
    He moved stealthily into the gardens, through the rows of topiaries and giant azaleas, scoped out an empty room across from Annabelle’s, then climbed the rail, jimmied the door, and slipped inside.
    He set up his M24 with its attachable telescopic sight and aimed it at Annabelle’s window. Through the lens, he watched her. She was sitting at the desk in her robe, sipping coffee and tapping on her computer. He forced himself to tear his gaze from her body and zeroed in on the screen.
    She was researching vultures.
    Determined to finish the job as quickly and painlessly as possible, he aimed the weapon. He had a clear shot. Could take her out quickly. She would never know what hit her.
    Then she clicked to a file of the bombing and more photos appeared. Pictures of the explosion, of people maimed and dying. Women and children crying. The blazing fire and smoke pouring from the ship.
    Then another of him on the ship, reaching down to help an injured woman off the burning deck. Dammit, he shouldn’t have been photographed. Shouldn’t have put himself in that position. But his humanity had surfaced, and he’d wanted to help that night.
    He swallowed, slid his finger over the trigger. Felt the cool metal against the pad of his thumb. Could already smell the scent of death. Could hear the glass crashing and see Annabelle’s body jerk with the impact. Blood spewing from her pale forehead.
    His throat convulsed. The darkness ate at him, urging him to do it. He had to in order to protect the team. She was simply a casualty of the cause.
    But he thought of her as Annabelle, not the target, and his hands began to shake. His palms grew sweaty. His vision blurred.
    His breath came in pants, erratic. Lifting one hand, he wiped the sweat on his jeans and swallowed hard.
    Shit. His control was slipping.
    Anger churned through his blood. He
never
lost control. And certainly not over a woman.
    He hated her for it.
    He closed his eyes, mentally willing himself back in the game. She could destroy him and his team, endanger their lives and the lives of hundreds of others.
    But images of her on the news haunted him. The way she’d helped the needy the night of the bombing.
    Memories of her in the shower followed along with the sight of her shivering as she ran from his house to her car the night he’d met her.
    Dammit, he was thinking too much. He relied on instinct while on the job; he demanded perfection.
    But now he was rethinking his plan.
    What if she had sent files on him to another source?
    She had talked to the local police about him. If she went missing, would they come after him? Shit.
    He’d have to figure out a way around it. The unit would be his alibi.
    He curled his fingers around the handle, moving his trigger finger into position, and focused. Mentally channeling his energy into the zone, he looked through the viewfinder again and found his shot.
    He lived for the kill. He liked the sound of the bullet zooming through the air. The startled look in the victim’s eyes the moment they realized they’d been hit.
    That death had come calling.
    Good-bye, Annabelle. It’s time to die
.
    Annabelle’s cell phone jangled, and she hurried to retrieve it, hoping it might be a lead on the bombings, that the man who’d sent her the text message might be trying to make contact again.
    But she checked the number and saw it was her boss. She bit her lip, debating over whether to answer, but knew he’d keep hounding her until she did.
    Resigned, she punched the connect button. “Hello, Roland.”
    “Annabelle, why haven’t you called me?”
    She sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ve been busy,” she said through gritted teeth. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in the middle of putting