"You know I hate heights, right?"
The bitter air whipped against my back over the covering of my tan jacket. Gravel dug into my skin through the black jeans on my thighs while my gloved hands rested on the metal of the sniper rifle over the edge of the six-story building overlooking an office intersection. Over my figure was a textured, army green and brown covering meant to conceal snipers from the enemy.
It had been years since my eyes peered down the scope. Usually, I was out in the blaring heat of the Arabian day, not the bone-chilling cold of Moscow mornings. Though Arabian nights weren't exactly warmth and happiness either.
"I didn't know the US army took up pussys," the deep voice mocked in my ear. The wind only added to the illusion that he was breathing down my neck. Even from a few feet away, Ashton Naifeh had a way of pushing my buttons. That's something that hadn't faded over the past two months.
I didn't want to be here. Potvin was sending the two of us on a suicide mission, thinking a public shooting wouldn't lead to the FSB right to his doorstep. 'Motivation' he had called it when handing Ashton the rifle. I doubt he pictured us getting it done with me behind the scope. Even after I killed Samarin he still thought I was a helpless bitch. I suppose that could work in my favor, though; less blame when things went wrong.
Not that they would. That would destroy this entire mission and Ashton and I would end up being tortured in some Russian prison in Siberia. If I even made it to prison. A valuable criminal like me? No doubt the FSB would have some fun with me.
"Fuck off," I muttered under my breath, not daring to take my eyes off the scope. I wouldn't miss my mark when we were this close to getting exactly what we needed to walk out of Israel as billionaires.
Behind me, the heat of his muscular body pressed against my side, as he too laid on the ground to conceal his figure. I didn't need to look at Ashton to know he had a scope in his hand, watching for our target through the front door of an office building. Sometimes spotters were at different vantages and sometimes they were right beside you. Considering we had one rifle, it didn't make sense to split up into two teams. That, and electronic or radio communication could be easily intercepted.
"You would think the sniper would be the one ready to climb the nearest tree to get a vantage."
"You would think the infantryman would be the one ready to jump out of an airplane or pilot a helicopter," I retorted defensively, watching the people on the sidewalk brush by each other, some in seemingly perfect lockstep.
"Yet you're the one jumping out of airplanes and scaling apartment buildings with me. Odd how that worked out," he mocked under his breath, focusing on the scene below. Potvin wanted this done today. Malek Romanoff was a wealthy broker who helped the Bravata with some insider trading. After an investment gone south, Potvin wanted to teach his fellow business partners a valuable lesson about what happens when he doesn't get what he wants. Call it excessive but Potvin knew how to send a message, even if he was a sexist prick.
At twelve on the dot, every day without fail, Mr. Romanoff left his building to go get lunch from one of his favorite restaurants, all three of which were West of his office. If I was wasting my lunch break, this man better be punctual. Covering my tracks to get here was hard enough, let alone the task of escaping this square after someone's body dropped.
"Remind me why I'm the one pulling the trigger again? Why do I always have to do the dirty work?"
"You're kidding me right?" Ashton's deep voice rumbled incredulously. "I'm the one who made out with Klein, shot him, and dismembered his body. You just played darts with his dick."
