The Devil’s Nemesis by Quentin Black

Author:Quentin Black [Black, Quentin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-10T00:00:00+00:00

21

Mike watched Bianchi’s security team through the Trijicon TR24 AccuPoint scope of his Colt M4A1 SOPMOD Carbine rifle.

He had lain for over three hours, barely a hundred yards away without even a ghillie suit on, and no one spotted him.

He had thoroughly briefed Bianchi’s auspiciously titled ‘Head of Security’ on the importance of shallow clearance patrols and binocular checks.

Though he had a burning disrespect for their unprofessionalism, he understood that adherence to SOPs to guard against scenarios that might never happen had to be ruthlessly drilled into individuals through hard training.

He had brought a small team with him to form an outer position, covering any approaches through the forest to the cabin complex.

The more he got to know Bianchi, the less surprised he was Larry MacKenzie had contacted him through an intermediary.

Bianchi was smart and cunning, but he had an insecurity and ego that bled into the lines. Whereas MacKenzie might have had the same, Mike suspected he’d have them tightly leashed.

Though MacKenzie, unlike Bianchi, would never get his hands dirty by physically dishing out violence, he frightened Mike more.

That Bianchi was a pawn in the billionaire’s chessboard was obvious to Mike—and maybe Bianchi knew it, too.

And Mike knew he was also a pawn, but he didn’t care. Everyone worked for someone.

Still, he knew there was the ever-present danger of becoming a loose end for a billionaire who saw having people disappear as part of business.

The best way to avoid his bad graces was to make himself useful.

And in this instance, it meant keeping this Bianchi alive.

Mike flicked the scope to the upper window of the next cabin.

And it definitely meant keeping her alive.

Richèl Vergeer’s shining black, beautifully coiffured hair reminded him of how Cleopatra was depicted. She seemed delicately feline in her figure and movements.

Though Mike kept strictly professional while working, he could see her beauty was harshly striking—even without her glasses on.

She looked the type a rich man might keep around as eye candy, but he remembered MacKenzie’s words: ‘When I am not there but she is, then she is me.’

He flicked his scope back to Bianchi’s window. Placing his phone over his scope, he snapped a picture of him and then sent it to the Mafioso chief.

Mike waited for Bianchi to end his call and look at his phone before calling him.

“Yes?”

“That’s how close I’ve managed to get with a rifle. I suggest you have a word with your security or else replace them.”

He ended the call before Bianchi could retort and patrolled back to the defensive position.

Being in the woods like this imbued him with vague nostalgia.

He remembered the Afghanistan green zone had a dangerously hypnotic effect during long spells of quiet.

And he didn’t want to fall into that trap now.

He approached the small makeshift camp, holding his carbine by the stock in his left hand to indicate he wasn’t under duress.

Due to the good visibility, the inward-facing sentry simply waved him in.

Mike asked, “Patrol back yet?”

“Not yet,” answered Roger, a former MARSOC operator.

Mike frowned. “They go out late?”

“No,” replied the marine.

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