SIXTY-THREE

It took Sola, relatively speaking, no time at all to get to West Point, and as she parked her car down by the water and got out, she remembered another trip here in the dark, on a different cold night. That previous visit to Ricardo’s house, that other infiltration, that bid to claim what was properly owed to her, had set everything else in motion: her abduction, Assail’s actions on her behalf…her introduction to the training center.

And here she was, doing a full circle for closure.

Just as she had before, she stuck to the low-slung stone wall as she proceeded up the incline of the long, ascending front lawn. Unlike before, she wasn’t on skis or wearing white to blend into the snowy landscape. It didn’t matter; she moved fast, and the cloud cover over the moon gave her a pass.

As she approached Ricardo’s mansion, she noted where the lights were glowing: A couple in his master suite, but there were ones on in the lower level as well.

She had her gun out the entire time. And she’d screwed the suppressor on.

She knew a couple of different ways to break into the house, and mentally reviewed her options. She didn’t have her grappling gear with her, which was perhaps an oversight on her part. No matter, though. She would make this work and get her job done.

When she arrived at the apex, she had to cross over the side lawn to get to the corner of the mansion, and she did not enjoy being without cover—but she made it and flattened her back against a wall between two arching windows.

There was no way of knowing how many people were inside. Or where they were located. Assail had told her that Vitoria had been in the warehouse alone, but that did not mean she didn’t have guards at her home base.

And of course she would stay here. She was Ricardo’s sister. She would have standards, and no hotel, not even with the best accomodations and most attentive maids, could rival this estate.

Sola shifted her position to the corner of the house, and leaned around to visualize the back of the—

There was a pattern of illumination cast onto the snowpack, all of the windows of the mansion’s promenade throwing a row of yellow light squares onto the ground. And way down, at the far side, a figure came out of the kitchen and headed in Sola’s direction.

She stepped free of her position, but stuck to the shadows as she assessed the person.

It was Vitoria. Long dark hair down, face free of makeup, a silk robe falling to her slippered feet. She was holding a porcelain teacup, as if she couldn’t sleep and had gone down to fix herself something soothing.

Lavender and rose hips, perhaps?

Sola lifted her gun and tracked Vitoria with the muzzle.

If this were the movies, she would break in and chase the woman around the grand house, the drama culminating in some kind of shoot-out where they each accused the other of crimes against blood and love—perhaps she’d get herself wounded and have to heroically drive herself back to Caldwell.

But this was not Hollywood.

Sola was as mortal as her target was, and she didn’t know enough about what kind of bees’ nest she was going to stir up as soon as she pulled her trigger. What she was clear on was that this woman needed to die, tonight, and she had a good shot in another seven feet, six feet…five feet…

More than anything, Sola wanted to eliminate the threat and just get back to her grandmother and the male she loved safely.

In one piece. No leaks.

As Vitoria walked along, she was stirring a silver spoon in circles, her eyes downcast.

So she never saw it coming. Didn’t hear the shot, either.

But when that old-fashioned glass broke right next to her, she looked up in alarm.

Sola got the bitch right between the eyes.

It was the hole-in-one kill shot, the one-in-a-million, the if-it-ever-was-going-to-go-like-that-tonight-is-the-night shot.

No need to double tap that shit.

The woman pinwheeled her arms, dropping the porcelain cup, stumbling, falling…grabbing on to the nearest thing she could.

Which happened to be the bronze statue of a ballet dancer done by Degas.

The very statue that Sola had shifted one inch out of position on its base, as payback for Ricardo stiffing her for what she’d been owed for watching Assail.

It seemed like poetic justice that the sister took that piece of art down with her—right on top of her, as a matter of fact. So if she hadn’t already been in the process of dying, the impact would surely have killed her.

As the clatter rang out, Sola took off, her gun by her side, head ducked. Now, if her good luck streak held, she’d make it down to the car without trouble and head back to Caldwell.

But no matter what happened, she had made sure her male was safe. Because that was what real women did.

Real women didn’t wait for their dragon slayers to come save them.

They were true partners—and good with a gun on their own.

Booyah.