Irene Hannon - An Eye for an Eye (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 2)

A N E YE
FOR AN E YE

I RENE H ANNON

2009 by Irene Hannon

Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com

E-book edition created 2010

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansfor example, electronic, photocopy, recordingwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-0487-5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Contents

To my father, James Hannon,
who always wanted me to write a mystery.

I hope suspense counts, Dad...
Because this series is for you!

His quarry was late.

Very late.

Shading his eyes, the man scanned the deserted jogging path and shifted the rifle cradled in his arms. He couldnt linger much longer without risking detection. In the past couple of hours hed already seen a few too many runners and dog walkers, despite the oppressive August heat. But no one had yet ventured anywhere near his concealed position in the woods at the edge of the park.

After studying his quarrys habits, hed chosen the time and place with care. And hed walked through the exercise dozens of times in his mind. Park behind the First Congregational Church, unoccupied on this sultry St. Louis Saturday. Leave the car at the far end of the isolated parking lot, next to the woods that separated church property from the park. Cut through the dense thicket. Wait for his target. Take his shot. Return to the car, slide the rifle back inside the weed-eater box on the back seat. Drive home. Dispose of the gun.

He stroked the sleek steel barrel, the taste of regret sharp on his tongue. He hated the thought of destroying his favorite hunting rifle. But hanging on to it once this job was finished would be too dangerous. His only consolation was that it would end its life doing Gods work.

Shifting his position, he lifted his arm and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his dark green shirt. Then he turned to scan the empty church parking lot barely visible through the shrubby undergrowth beneath the trees. He hadnt sought out a house of God as his staging area, but it was fitting. For he was here to follow a directive from the Good Book. To claim an eye for an eye.

And if his quarry didnt show today... hed find another time to carry out his mission.

Ten minutes later, as he was about to scrap his plans and head back to his car, his patience was rewarded. A surge of adrenaline shot through him as his target appeared in the distance. He wiped his damp palms on his slacks. Closed his eyes.

Jesus, guide my aim as I do your work.

Exchanging his cotton gloves for a pair in snug-fitting latex, he lifted the rifle. Fitted the stock against his shoulder. Pinned the figure in his crosshairs.

And waited.

There was no need to rush. He could do the job at 150 yards, but why not wait until a hundred? The closer the target, the better the odds he could finish this in one shot.

Either way, in three minutes, max, the score would be settled. Justice would be done.

Timing and patience were everythingwhether hunting animals or people.

Warmth rose in shimmering waves from the asphalt jogging path, the humidity already stifling at eight oclock in the morning. A trickle of sweat headed south between Mark Sanderss shoulder blades, while another tracked down his temple. Without breaking rhythm or slowing his pace, he tilted his head and lifted his arm to wipe the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead. The heat was bad, but hed endured far hotter conditions. A sweltering St. Louis August was no worse than Afghanistan or Iraq or Colombia. And it was far safer.

Safety, however, was a relative term. And he never took it for granted.

Scrutinizing the terrain as he ran, he remained alert for anything out of the ordinary. That drillan on-the-job necessity had become a habit in his personal life as well. But the peaceful suburban park gave him little cause for concern. The place was deserted, the typical Saturday crowd sleeping in, lingering over a second cup of coffee or hibernating in air-conditioning.

Forty-five minutes ago, as hed downed a quick glass of juice, Mark had been tempted to follow their lead. Now he was glad he hadnt. Despite the heat, it felt good to run. To be able to run. Three months ago, when the bullet had ripped through his leg, he hadnt been sure hed ever use his jogging shoes again. But thanks to a great surgeon and intensive rehab, he was well on the road to a full recovery. And his short-term assignment to the understaffed St. Louis office, which had liberated him from the torture of temporary desk duty, had been a godsend. In another month, he should be physically ready to rejoin his team in Quantico.

As for mental readinessthat was another question.

Images from the final, fateful moments in the quick shop invaded his consciousness with the ruthless tenacity of an insidious cancer, twisting his gut into a tight, painful knot. As the familiar bleakness settled over him, Mark knew he had to find a way to stop rehashing a past he couldnt change. To stop second-guessing himself, wondering if there was anything he could have done to prevent the tragedy. The testimony of his partner and witnesses had confirmed hed followed protocol. The security video had backed that up. Despite the media scrutiny and public outcry, the review board had cleared him of wrongdoing.

Yet nothing changed the bottom line.

He bore full responsibility for the death of an innocent teen.

The bullet had come from his gun.

As a result, for the first time in his twelve years with the FBI, he felt like one of the bad guys instead of one of the good guys.

Until he got past that, Mark knew he couldnt rejoin the Hostage Rescue Team. He respected his colleagues too much to put them at risk. They were among the most highly trained and best-equipped tactical personnel in the world, and they didnt need an operator in their midst whose confidence was anything less than rock solid. The life-and-death situations they dealt with required instant decisions, and Mark wasnt certain he could deliver on that. Not yet, anyway. And neither was the counselor hed been required to talk with after the shooting.

In the interim, hed figured the job in St. Louis would be quiet enoughrelative to his usual dutiesto give him a chance to regain his perspective. Hed been here six weeks; he had four to go. By then, he should be ready to go back to Quantico. Physically and mentally.

At least he hoped so.

At the moment, however, he needed a distraction from his unsettling thoughts. And the attractive woman whod appeared in the distance provided one as she strode toward him.

Mark slowed a bit, forcibly compartmentalizing his morose musings as he enjoyed the smooth, easy grace of her stride, the long length of leg showing beneath her hot pink running shorts, the wide expanse of golden skin displayed above her white tank top. Despite the heat, she was walking at a good clip, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, a becoming flush on her cheeks.

Not a bad view for a Saturday morning.