Chapter One

Colorado.

Kneeling in the same spot for hours resulted in cramping muscles and a dampening forehead. Shifting positions would show weakness. Sweat burned the eyes, not ideal when staring down a scope.

“Any moment now.” Papa’s whispered words drew Jona’s attention back to the bird’s eye view of the school.

The empty tenth-floor apartment in the partially completed residential building afforded the best vantage point at the perfect distance. A couple of school kids pushed open the doors from the auditorium. Around Jona’s age, they seemed carefree while galloping down the stairs. Spoilt Americans.

“Remember what I have taught you.” Papa’s warm hand touched Jona’s shoulder. “I would take the shot, but my hands are no longer reliable.”

This assignment was Jona’s first kill—first human kill. Animals didn’t count, although Jona had hunted alongside Papa in the Finnish woodlands for ten years, since the age of six. That was when Papa was in-country and not on assignment. Otto Kivela was a legend and a mystery to many. And now, he’d become a shadowed soul. The crossover to Tuonela wasn’t long coming. Papa grew weaker every day as cancer ate away at his once fit body and his rapid decline was a worry. As a neopaganist, Jona should feel comfortable with losing Papa, but that was not the case. Otto spoke about the balance of nature and returning to the earth, but where did that leave Jona? Alone on a callous planet.

“Relax. You are white-knuckling the weapon.”

“Sorry, Papa.”

“Concentrate. 400 yards. Wind—five klicks left.”

“Yes, sir.”

Otto pushed up to look through his binoculars. He’d used the same pair for over twenty years—a green rubber, armored Leica Vector pair, with a built-in laser range finder. Like a sniper’s rifle, a good pair of binoculars was vital to the trade. Jona stroked the AI AW rifle with the tactical suppressor and folding stock that could easily fold into a suitcase for a quick escape. This was the first time that Jona would fire the Arctic Warfare bolt-action sniper rifle on the job. Jona’s humble rifle back in Finland wasn’t up to the challenge. Otto refused to use any other model and had relied on the weapon’s accuracy for over thirty years. His firm relations with cartels and criminal syndicates meant easy access to weapons. Otto had never missed a mark with the AW. Over the years, he’d bought and stashed this same model in safe houses in various countries. Back in Finland, on the range, Jona had practiced for weeks with an AW rifle. Finally, the moment of truth was upon them.

“Do not rest the barrel—that will affect the fall of your shot.”

“Yes, sir,” Jona replied, although Otto had said that many times before.

“Aim for a strikethrough. If you can’t take the headshot, aim for the chest.”

“Strikethrough” was Papa’s reference to a clean kill when a bullet enters the skull’s front and blows out the back—the same went for a shot to the heart. Accuracy meant slicing straight through the organ. A perfectly placed round entered at an exact angle and the mark was dead before they hit the ground.

Jona forcibly relaxed as crowds pushed their way out of the school hall and flooded the parking lot. Many made their way to their vehicles. Some milled about as the dipping sun cast shadows on the lot. Still, Jona waited another fifteen minutes. A limousine pulled up, and Jona let out a trembling breath. The targets would never climb into that car.

 Two bodyguards led the way. The tycoon followed; his arm wrapped around his teenage daughter. They were far enough away that Jona could barely make out facial features but could feel the daughter’s excitement with her performance at the school play. Her stage make-up highlighted in the telescopic finder as she smiled up at her father.

“Base centered of auditorium,” Otto whispered, alerting Jona to the first mark’s position.

“Seen.”

The mother followed, pausing beside her husband and daughter, her erect posture clothed in a pale-blue designer suit.

“Fire.”

Jona followed the command with a squeeze of the trigger. The first target was the father. Jona aimed for the head‚ knowing the wealthy magnate may be wearing a ballistic vest. The mark fell. Now came the hard part—readjusting aim to the mother. The gun fired again. She dropped but kept moving. Jona swore, as a bodyguard pulled her down the stairs to cover. The limousine now sat in the way.

The daughter... Jona focused on the kid and hesitated. Her screams weren’t audible from a distance, but Jona could feel her palpable anguish.

“Pull the trigger!” Otto yelled.

Jona fired just as a large guard shoved the girl to the ground. They rolled down the steps.

“I missed.” In frustration, Jona took down the nearest watchdog. A headshot dropped the blond warrior.

“You don’t say. We need to move. There will be immediate heat. Pack up! Now!”

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

“We get paid for the three deaths—not one. I should have taken the shot!” Otto used the table to climb to his feet.

“I killed the rich bastard! The wife will die from her injuries.”

“You did half a job.” Papa’s voice sounded thready.

“Let me stay and finish,” Jona begged. “They’re crouched behind the transport. I’ll pick them off.”

“There’s no time. Stop sniveling and help to pack the gear.”

“I’ll ruin your legacy.” Jona scrambled to help.

“My fault. You’re too young—only sixteen.” Face paling, Otto swayed.

“Papa!”

“I’m fine.”

Jona caught the frail man as he fell.

“Leave me.”

“Never, Papa! No.”

“My life… is over. Let me have… the last victory.”

Jona tried to pick up Otto and strained under the weight. They wouldn’t make it. The tycoon’s protection detail, along with local law enforcement, would track them down.

“Go. That is a command.” Otto shoved a palm into Jona’s chest. “We waited too long…. not strong enough.”

“I love you, Papa.” Tears streamed.

“Grow up, child. You know what I expect.”

“Do you want me to…” Jona stared at the rifle in dismay before swiping at a wet cheek. “I can’t shoot you!”

“Let them arrest me. I’ll gloat in those federal pigs’ faces before I die.” Otto smiled weakly.

After adjusting the plans, and hurriedly wiping down the rifle, furniture, and equipment, Jona propped Otto against the wall near the weapon and kissed his clammy forehead.

Leaving without Papa’s beloved binoculars wasn’t an option and Jona tucked them beneath a thin jacket, along with the expensive laser range finder.

Papa’s last order came—the words barely whispered. “Bide your time. Finish the job and kill both bitches.”

“Yes, sir.” Jona never looked back.

The descent rushed by in a blur. After exiting into an alley, then detouring and backtracking, Jona finally sat behind the wheel of their rental car. It smelled like Papa’s cigarettes, and childhood memories came flooding back. God, Papa stayed behind. Otto should never have come on the hunt. Jona should have insisted on leaving him at the rented cabin.

The entire fucked-up operation was all Jona’s fault. That’s what happened when a sixteen-year-old kid stepped into an assassin’s legendary shoes.