IGNITE

CHAPTER TWO

CAIN

Sprawled on a winter-chilled rooftop, I settle into practiced breaths as I peer through the scope of my MK18 rested on the ledge of a pawnshop.

Heady adrenaline floods my veins—a welcomed thrill after too many stressful weeks holed up in the office.

I get high off the hunt. The fear I summon in others when they catch the barely audible snip of my silencers or the crack of my rifle from somewhere in the night when I don’t care to be stealthy. Possibly the screams of the unlucky souls I chose to carve up with my knife instead.

But this target was clever. More than I gave him credit for. He’d managed to slip through our strike at the docks in West Bank last night.

While my teams delivered the hard drive we’d snatched from Gabriel’s operation to my head of IT, I’d taken off after this fucker, only to lose him when he’d dipped into the lobby of a convention center hosting some medical professional event.

Honestly, I was beginning to question who the fuck I was. Four years in the Special Forces, and more than a decade into running a highly successful security consulting business, and I can’t even take out one target.

Did I lose sleep over the failed kill? Fucking hours of it. White-hot rage was still coursing through my veins when I rose out of bed before sunrise to a call from my staff with updates on my target’s whereabouts.

Too much time in the clown suit sitting behind a desk and not out in the field, Rev, my VP of HR, had teased me as soon as I’d stormed into the office this morning. I’d nearly slammed my empty coffee thermos into his face. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d broken his nose.

I spot my target now, a tall man with bleached hair and neck tattoos, exiting the subway. Head on a constant swivel, he drifts into a swarm of people on the sidewalk.

He knows I’m watching.

Had I more time in between meetings with clients and planning out complex security jobs, I’d take my time torturing this one. But after tailing him for hours, hopping countless subway lines, I was over it. I'd anticipated his route and posted up, and as soon as I had a clean shot, I was going to send this guy to hell with a few more holes in his body.

Adjusting the angle of my rifle to counteract the bitter wind, I keep my finger hovered over the trigger. The slightest error could cost the wrong person their life. The whole reason I started up Sinro Enterprises with my inheritance was to protect innocent people.

After being exposed to the wickedness of this world during my service, I couldn’t imagine returning to a civilian life where I wasn’t still fighting evil. I would have served longer, but two bullet holes in my shoulder and a fuck ton of PTSD had me shipped home instead.

Before I can line up my target’s head in the scope of my rifle, he darts into a crumbling public library building, phone clutched to his ear.

I unleash a growl. He must have eyes looking out for him. These motherfuckers keep multiplying faster than I can hire mercenaries to wipe them out.

Hefting my rifle off the ledge, I swiftly collapse the stock to fit in my briefcase. Then I grab my Glock and tuck it into the shoulder holster beneath my bomber jacket.

With my briefcase locked up for later retrieval, I drop down the ladder at the back of the pawnshop and sprint toward the library.

Cardio was not on my agenda today. Not when I’d spent hours punishing my muscles in the gym last night. Nor did I expect to have to cancel two meetings this morning. This shitstain is cutting into important business.