Friends, Lea Griffith has stopped by to share her new release. If you haven’t read her work, go and buy it RIGHT NOW. She’s an amazing person and an oh-so-fantastic author!! I’m reading BULLET TO THE HEART right now and it’s soooo good!!
Please show her some love! xoxox
She was born to love then taught to kill. She has become everything but is no one.
Known only as Bullet she was long ago forced to shed the name her parents gave her. Changed, molded and trained to kill with sharp-shooting efficiency she is one of The Collective’s most valuable assets. In a cadre of killers, Bullet is death waiting but her time for vengeance has come.
He was loved and then he lost. He has become a hunter in search of revenge.
Everything was taken from Rand the day a bullet ended the lives of his beloved wife and daughter. He has searched for their killer seven long years and may have her in his hands. Rand has suffered but now the time has come to make The Collective pay or die trying.
Joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin. Retribution draws them together but before all is said and done they will learn love can either break you or make you stronger.
Remi watched the rain dance and slide along the barrel of her rifle, and lowered her eye to the scope. She’d been on this observation deck for five days, waiting. Her target was due to leave in another hour. He’d depart from the front entrance of the Columbia Center along Fifth Avenue, and attempt to enter a limousine that had been scheduled two days ago to take him to the airport.
He wasn’t going to make it to the airport. He wasn’t even going to make it to the limousine. She toyed with the phone at her side, breathed deeply. Once the kill was made, she’d have roughly six minutes to get out of Smith Tower. She’d be cutting it close, but there was no way the men with her target would sit around and wait on the cops. They’d come for the shooter.
She pulled the tarpaulin tighter around her. It’d rained every minute she’d been in this city. The sky wept, but surely it wasn’t for the man she’d come to dispose of. She was stiff with the waiting. The only time she moved was to use the bathroom in a little container she’d brought for just that purpose. Eating had been put on hold the last two days though she kept hydrated with her camel-pack.
She’d give most of what she owned for the rain to stop. Most. But not all. She shifted her weight to her left hip, settled the rifle, and once again peered through the scope.
She’d studied Rand Beckett for a year. The man had a very interesting past, but the bottom line was he was an enemy to her employer. His company, Trident Corporation, had been a thorn in The Collective’s ass for nearly eight years. Remi would have thought the loss of his wife and daughter would have ended the man’s mission to destroy The Collective.
It hadn’t. If anything, it had made him more tenacious. He and his brother-in-law were both slated for termination. It’s why she’d been sent here to begin with. She sighed, Mr. Beckett’s face floating through her mind. Rough-hewn features, strong jaw, high cheekbones, and the most startling shade of indigo eyes she’d ever seen. They’d taken her breath when she’d first seen his picture seven years ago. Joseph had watched her closely, as he always did when he gave her an assignment, and in his pitch black eyes there had been a flash of interest at her reaction. She’d masked it quickly, but with Joseph it was hard to hide everything. Not that it mattered this time. Bastard.
Her left hand clenched and she felt the phone. She had a four-minute window from the time it rang with confirmation of the target’s departure before she’d make her shot. She’d have one of those minutes to set her objective in motion.
She closed her eyes, felt the rain glide against the exposed skin of her right wrist. It was cold, bitterly so, but she’d endured worst. Five days of waiting and scoping had given her time to come to grips with her decision. Too many deaths weighed on her soul now. It had ceased to matter that those deaths were warranted, that the people she’d killed were more-than-likely rotting in hell.
She’d pulled the trigger and sent them there. The heaviness of that was staggering. She’d recently begun to falter under its load. It was time to make sure old wrongs were righted, and then she could rest. The others agreed.
The phone vibrated against her hand.
“Your four minute window is confirmed,” a woman said in a calm voice.
“Affirmative,” she replied and disconnected.
She moved back to her stomach, settled in, and gazed through the scope once more, making infinitesimal adjustments so her range wasn’t off.
Movement behind the large glass doors of the Columbia Center gave credibility to her caller’s information. Remi lifted the phone and punched in a number she’d memorized a week ago for just this moment. One minute more and she’d press dial, give him the only warning he’d ever get from her.
She breathed in deeply, felt the cold air move through her body, settling all the places that needed to be cold for this moment.
“Bayu-bay, all people should sleep at night,” Remi whispered and smiled to herself. “I see you…”
Rand’s phone rang, and he glanced at the readout. It was a number he didn’t recognize.
He answered it anyway. “Yes?”
“I would suggest you duck,” a woman’s lyrical voice said through the phone. Her voice stroked him from the inside out.
“Who is this?” he demanded as he walked out of the building. Two members of his security team were with him, one in front and one behind.
“That isn’t important. What is important is that you duck,” she responded, and in the tone was a touch of frustration now.
He wanted to smile for some odd reason. “Look, whoever this is—”
“Fine,” she huffed. “But I’m only making one shot and if I take you out with him, it’s on you.”
The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He was in the crosshairs. Rand turned swiftly, pushed the man behind him down, and ducked. In the next instant a shot rang out. Had the bullet been meant for him, he would have been way too late. As it was, Donnie Parker’s head exploded in front of him, and the man fell lifeless to the ground.
“Fuck!” He took cover behind the limo. “Dobson, get back in the building and call Ken,” Rand instructed the other security man.
“Yes, sir!” Dobson yelled, and raced back into the building.
Rand looked around, and in a split second made a determination of where the shot had come from. “Get in the building and call the police,” he instructed the shocked limo driver. The man just sat there, dazed and confused.
“Call the fucking police, goddamn it!” Rand yelled to get the man’s attention, and then he gave up.
The shot had come from somewhere southwest of his location. He began to move, calculating distance and looking for anything out of the ordinary. She’d said one shot. He obviously hadn’t been the target, which made zero sense. Parker hadn’t been with him long, but he’d been clean.
Rand made it across Fifth Avenue, making sure to keep cars between him and any straight line of site. He zigzagged, narrowly avoiding a city bus, the entire time feeling the sting of adrenaline course through his body. Everything sharpened, tapered. His breath quieted, though his lungs expanded to draw in more air. His every aim and intent was to get to the towered building a block north of his location. There were sirens in the distance but no other shots split the late morning. He ran once he reached the cover of the buildings across from Columbia Center.
He came to Smith Tower and halted against a column outside the entrance. People milled to and fro, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a man had just had his head blown to kingdom come a street over. His gaze searched for anything out of the ordinary. It had been less than five minutes since the shot. He reached for his phone and dialed Ken.
“What the fuck’s going on, Rand?” Ken’s voice was controlled, but a vein of fury wound through it.
“They made a play. You need to get to Seattle now,” Rand responded as his gaze explored every shadow and corner. The rain continued to fall, though he was shielded from the drops by the building’s overhang.
“I’m on my way.” Just that, nothing more.
A cab pulled up to the front just as Rand zeroed in on the corner of the building farthest from him. A woman, petite with striking long red hair, walked out of the far entrance, umbrella in hand and a large handbag on her shoulder.
Something about the way she walked, so fluid and relaxed, nothing out of place on this cold, rainy day, made everything in Rand go on alert. She was too calm, too composed. But her eyes—they never stopped moving, touching on her surroundings ceaselessly. When her gaze landed on him, it skimmed and returned. Something sliced through the brilliant blue orbs. An infinitesimal widening of her eyes, a small moue of her lips, and the feeling of alertness inside him ramped up to dangerous levels.
Rand tensed as his body hardened in a rush, every muscle drawing tight in preparation for a fight. The nameless something was veiled as quickly as it appeared, and their moment of connection was broken as she stopped and stepped into the taxi.
Rand hit the last number that had shown up on his phone. The one that had called and offered the warning. He waited while it rang.
The woman, a beautiful sliver of light in the abysmal conditions, settled into the cab, and Rand was offered a tantalizing view of pale, slim calf before the door closed.
The woman spoke to the driver, and he began to pull away. Then lightning struck Rand as she lifted her phone and looked directly at him, beautifully painted red lips moving, drawing his gaze.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Lea Griffith began sneaking to read her mother’s romance novels at a young age. She cut her teeth on the greats: McNaught, Woodiwiss, and Garwood. A firm believer that love makes the world go round, she still consumes every romance book she can put her hands on, but now she writes her own.
Lea lives with her husband and three teenage daughters in rural Georgia. Two dogs, a cat, and a Betta fish named Coddy George complete a family always in motion. When not working at the EDJ, she’s usually at her keyboard, using every spare second to write. Nothing is off-limits when it comes to her writing.
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