Read Online THE PERFECT TARGET by Jenna Mills - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jenna Mills
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came damn close to making him forget what had to be done. "Have you heard of Viktor Zhukov?"
Her fingers skimmed the tender spot in the center of his back, where a bullet had slammed against body armor, penetrating several layers. "He's a former general in the Soviet Red Army, right? Linked to the senseless slaughter of innocents and executions of several U.S. counterintelligence agents?"
ISA agents. Fathers with families, men with whom Sandro had broken bread and laughed, for whom he'd sworn vengeance. "Right."
Against his back, her hands stilled. "What does he have to do with me?"
Sandro opened his eyes, noting the lengthening shadows creeping across the room. "His son was arrested by the U.S. government," he started to explain, then broke off abruptly.
"What?" Miranda asked.
"Shh." He listened carefully, focusing beyond the sound of their ragged breathing for the noise he'd heard moments before.
"Sandro?"
He stood, reached for his briefcase. "Get in the bathroom."
Her eyes went dark. "What?"
"The bathroom," he mouthed, gesturing toward the small dark closet. "Now."
He saw the reluctance in her gaze, the return of the hated fear, but she didn't question him again, just quietly moved to the small room.
Sandro crept toward the locked door. His heart hammered viciously in his chest. Adrenaline rushed. He'd been careful, damn it. So damn careful. No one had followed him. He'd made sure of it.
But then he heard it again, the sound of a door opening. Only this time, he heard voices, as well. Muffled and in Portuguese, but deadly and dangerous all the same.
"You check upstairs," a man instructed. "I'll take the back. And remember, if you find them, Vellenti's had his chance. Only the girl leaves here alive."
----
Chapter 4
« ^ »
V ery few times in Miranda's life had she been afraid. Uneasy, yes. Exposed and trapped, definitely. Her family's wealth and political prestige rendered simple luxuries most people took for granted, like privacy, impossible. The media's fascination with the Carringtons ensured someone was always watching her every move, breath, mistake. Her first kiss had been splashed on the front page of a tabloid. Her first drink. Her first heartbreak.
A book had been written about her sister's brief, tragic life.
But none of those intrusions had frightened her. There'd been only frustration and a blade of determination that nicked harder, deeper, with every invasion of her privacy. Her heart had bled, but rarely had it hammered in fear.
Like it did now.
Adrenaline surged like the tide rushing in all at once. Her pulse raced. Her blood ran cold. Curling her clammy fingers around the doorframe, she peered into the small room, her gaze riveted on Sandro. Shirtless, he stood in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, completely still, completely at attention. In his hand he held the semiautomatic he'd quietly removed from his attaché case, his finger on the trigger.
Miranda forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply. In. Out. In. Out. Sandro was a careful man, the secret room well hidden. Chances were no one would find them. And if they did, Miranda knew beyond a shadow of doubt whoever walked through that door wouldn't live to tell about it.
Sandro wouldn't let them.
That thought both thrilled and horrified. She abhorred violence, had fought revulsion every time she'd visited the firing range and squeezed the trigger on the Lady Colt she'd bought to assure her father she could take care of herself. She'd learned to hit the target with unerring accuracy, but had secretly wondered if she'd be able to fire on a human being.
To end another's life.
Sandro, this mysterious man her father had sent to protect her, who could change from charmer to commando with quicksilver speed, would have no such compunction. He wouldn't hesitate. Instinct told her violence was second nature to him. The nasty scar slashing across his throat confirmed that. Without doubt, he was a man shaped and hardened by the kind
Her fingers skimmed the tender spot in the center of his back, where a bullet had slammed against body armor, penetrating several layers. "He's a former general in the Soviet Red Army, right? Linked to the senseless slaughter of innocents and executions of several U.S. counterintelligence agents?"
ISA agents. Fathers with families, men with whom Sandro had broken bread and laughed, for whom he'd sworn vengeance. "Right."
Against his back, her hands stilled. "What does he have to do with me?"
Sandro opened his eyes, noting the lengthening shadows creeping across the room. "His son was arrested by the U.S. government," he started to explain, then broke off abruptly.
"What?" Miranda asked.
"Shh." He listened carefully, focusing beyond the sound of their ragged breathing for the noise he'd heard moments before.
"Sandro?"
He stood, reached for his briefcase. "Get in the bathroom."
Her eyes went dark. "What?"
"The bathroom," he mouthed, gesturing toward the small dark closet. "Now."
He saw the reluctance in her gaze, the return of the hated fear, but she didn't question him again, just quietly moved to the small room.
Sandro crept toward the locked door. His heart hammered viciously in his chest. Adrenaline rushed. He'd been careful, damn it. So damn careful. No one had followed him. He'd made sure of it.
But then he heard it again, the sound of a door opening. Only this time, he heard voices, as well. Muffled and in Portuguese, but deadly and dangerous all the same.
"You check upstairs," a man instructed. "I'll take the back. And remember, if you find them, Vellenti's had his chance. Only the girl leaves here alive."
----
Chapter 4
« ^ »
V ery few times in Miranda's life had she been afraid. Uneasy, yes. Exposed and trapped, definitely. Her family's wealth and political prestige rendered simple luxuries most people took for granted, like privacy, impossible. The media's fascination with the Carringtons ensured someone was always watching her every move, breath, mistake. Her first kiss had been splashed on the front page of a tabloid. Her first drink. Her first heartbreak.
A book had been written about her sister's brief, tragic life.
But none of those intrusions had frightened her. There'd been only frustration and a blade of determination that nicked harder, deeper, with every invasion of her privacy. Her heart had bled, but rarely had it hammered in fear.
Like it did now.
Adrenaline surged like the tide rushing in all at once. Her pulse raced. Her blood ran cold. Curling her clammy fingers around the doorframe, she peered into the small room, her gaze riveted on Sandro. Shirtless, he stood in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, completely still, completely at attention. In his hand he held the semiautomatic he'd quietly removed from his attaché case, his finger on the trigger.
Miranda forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply. In. Out. In. Out. Sandro was a careful man, the secret room well hidden. Chances were no one would find them. And if they did, Miranda knew beyond a shadow of doubt whoever walked through that door wouldn't live to tell about it.
Sandro wouldn't let them.
That thought both thrilled and horrified. She abhorred violence, had fought revulsion every time she'd visited the firing range and squeezed the trigger on the Lady Colt she'd bought to assure her father she could take care of herself. She'd learned to hit the target with unerring accuracy, but had secretly wondered if she'd be able to fire on a human being.
To end another's life.
Sandro, this mysterious man her father had sent to protect her, who could change from charmer to commando with quicksilver speed, would have no such compunction. He wouldn't hesitate. Instinct told her violence was second nature to him. The nasty scar slashing across his throat confirmed that. Without doubt, he was a man shaped and hardened by the kind
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