Chapter 7 - The Waitress
I stood perfectly still, rapidly processing the presence of the diner waitress standing right behind me.
Nora's hand was remarkably steady, pressing the hot suppressor firmly against my spine.
"Dominic pays very well for information, but he pays even better for confirmed kills," Nora stated coldly.
"You should have just stayed a pathetic, broken old man sitting in that diner."
She pulled the hammer back on her pistol with a sharp, echoing metallic click.
I did not panic.
I simply dropped my weight, spun violently to the left, and deflected her weapon with my tactical forearm guard.
The suppressed pistol fired a bullet harmlessly into the soft dirt.
I grabbed her wrist, applied brutal tactical leverage, and forced her to drop the gun entirely.
I swept her legs out from under her, pinning her violently to the muddy ground in a matter of seconds.
I pressed the sharp blade of my combat knife lightly against her throat.
Nora gasped in sheer terror, the arrogant assassin instantly replaced by a frightened, trembling amateur.
"Who is coordinating the flight at the airstrip?" I demanded, my voice a quiet, lethal rumble.
"It is not Dominic," she choked out, hot tears mixing with the mud on her face.
"Dominic is just the local muscle for the real buyer."
"The buyer is flying in on a private jet to personally inspect the payloads before takeoff."
I pulled the knife away from her neck and forcefully dragged Nora to her feet.
I used heavy zip-ties from my tactical rig to secure her wrists tightly to a thick pine tree.
"If you survive the night, consider changing careers," I advised her coldly.
I left her tied up in the woods and began the grueling five-mile trek to the private airstrip.
I moved like a ghost, my extensive training completely overriding the exhaustion in my muscles.
The airstrip was heavily illuminated by massive, blinding industrial floodlights.
Two black transport trucks were parked next to a sleek, unmarked Gulfstream jet.
It was not guarded by small-town, incompetent deputies.
A dozen heavily armed mercenaries in professional tactical gear patrolled the tarmac with lethal efficiency.
They were carrying military-grade assault rifles and wearing advanced night-vision optics.
Dominic was standing near the trucks, completely out of his league, sweating profusely as he argued with a mercenary commander.
I raised my thermal scope to scan the interior of the Gulfstream jet.
The thermal signature showed a single VIP sitting comfortably in the main cabin, sipping a dark drink.
I adjusted the focus on my scope, trying to get a clear look at the buyer's face through the thick glass window.
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The VIP slowly turned his head toward the glass, looking directly into the darkness.
My heart completely stopped when I recognized the face of the man financing the terror plot.
