Infiltrator: Your muse slips in my museās gang to gain information
The information given to him by the cartel had been accurateāif a little outdatedābut the file on Annabel Clarke had been rather sparse. Perhaps sparse was not the correct word, he mused, following the young woman of interest up the stairs of the abandoned tenement. Incinerated would have been a better choice.
Little Miss Sunshine, the joy of Lamontās eye and through careful observation, heād noted that Ashford had no small amount of pride in his adopted daughter. Heād have been lying if he said he wasnāt just the slightest bit curious about what made the heir-apparent of this particular mob operation so special.
Somehow, as he took one step to her two to reach the vantage point, heād also expected her to be a little taller. Well, height was no indication of ability, he thought as he swept aside the shattered glass before opening up the case heād carried up for the job.
"Spotted the target yet? We havenāt got all day."
Scoped in, he heard rather than saw her fold her arms, the rustle of fabric and the tap of her foot against the floor alerting him to her impatience. It was good fortuneānot for the poor sodāthat both the mob and the cartel wanted this mark dead. āTarget sighted.ā
"Fire when youāre ready."
He exhaled, relaxing as the cross-hairs lined up just right, and squeezed the trigger.