Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Targets confirmed. Vehicle three, rear seat, driver and passenger side.”
“Roger that,” Grace gritted.
Mirage did several more calculations, stored them in his mind, then acknowledged, “Shooter, you are green.”
“Roger, confirmations on ready.”
Mirage set up Grace’s history-making shot.
“Shot is four, eight, four, four.” Mirage took a three-second pause, then added, “Winds two-half value, nine degrees descending.”
“Adjustments.”
“Negative adjustments.”
“Hold scope.” Grace’s voice reverberated with unwavering focus.
“Spotter holding and standing by.”
Grace eased his finger over the trigger. He took a slow inhale and prepared to fire a shot that would make him a hero until a blur flew past Mirage on his right side, a second before a rib-bruising kick sent him flying across the room.
Mirage
Grace reacted immediately and rolled with Mirage as he slammed into the concrete wall.
Grace skidded to a halt in front of him and threw one side of his armored trench up in time to prevent the six Chinese stars slicing through the air from embedding in their chests.
“Spectre, we’ve been ambushed,” Mirage ground out.
The attacker slid across the floor and kicked Grace’s rifle out the open window.
“You Americans and your guns,” he growled with a voice as raw as a predator’s.
The man wore loose black linen pants and midnight tabi boots that muted his steps. The dark shozoku jacket was cinched tight at his waist, the cotton material covering his long, muscular arms before the fabric transitioned into fingerless gloves.
His head and face were covered with a black-and-gold scarf that looked like Persian silk, revealing only his hazel eyes.
As he moved around them, Mirage and Grace turned with him, not allowing him out of their site and readying for his next attack.
Mirage was stunned when he caught a glimpse of a dark-dressed man in the shadowed corner with his body coiled like a snake.
Watching. Waiting.
Mirage didn’t react to the surprise. Instead, he kept his face neutral under the brown cotton hood riding low over his forehead.
Mirage clenched his jaw, waiting for Spectre to respond to tell them who the hell these men were, these ninjas, and how the bastards got the drop on them?
“Stand down, Americans.” The beast-sized man who’d kicked the shit out of him spoke with confidence and determination through a thick Farsi accent.
“Fuck you,” Mirage snarled.
The man continued with his orders as if Mirage’s fury had no effect on him.
“Lee Woyashi will stand before the tribunal of my Order to be judged and punished for his crimes. Regarding Zelmir Benton…we will not allow you to take the life of an innocent man.”
“Woyashi and Zelmir Benton are terrorists and will be dead before the sun rises,” Mirage countered, just as sure.
“Death is too merciful for Woyashi. We are here to take him into the custody of the Order before day’s end.”
“You have no dominion here,” Mirage rebutted.
He stood behind Grace, doing what he always did by relaying the words his partner had to say.
“My dominion is wherever I stand, assassin.”
The ninja narrowed his piercing eyes.
“I do not wish to harm either of you, as you’re merely the ones pulling the trigger. You tell your superiors who wield the gun that my demand is nonnegotiable.”
If the motherfucker hadn’t just sneak-attacked them, Mirage would’ve considered his whole getup and accent kinda sexy.
The silent one waiting in the corner eased from his position and moved around them, positioning him and Grace in the middle.
Once the low light hit his face, Mirage stared back at cunning gray eyes that shone with deception and trickery.
“Then I am afraid we’ve reached an impasse,” Mirage said at the same time Grace pulled his Berettas from the holsters under his arms.
Mirage yanked two knives from under the cuffs of his sleeves and flung them backward toward the man advancing from the rear.
The gray-eyed mischief twisted his body at an impossible angle, dodging both blades, and advanced on Mirage so fast that he didn’t have a chance to pull his others.
These men were not the clumsy, undisciplined men they usually fought. These were trained fighters and masters of stealth.
Mirage had to turn and push his back against Grace’s to defend himself.
His opponent didn’t produce any weapons. His body and fighting style were its own force.
The man pinched the tips of his four fingers and thumb together, forming his hand into the shape of a snake head, and struck out with the swiftness of a black mamba.
The hit to Mirage’s shoulder felt as if he’d been bitten by one.
Mirage regulated his breathing. He had to remain calm in order to track the blur of movements, lest he get hit again.
He blocked the rapid-fire strikes with his forearms, but each blow to his bones created a shock wave of intense pain that shot up to his neck.
With unfathomable speed, his attacker moved his hands and feet in a way that targeted the most vulnerable points of Mirage’s lower body, forcing him to stay on the defensive and unable to find an opening to launch an effective offense.