Girl Under Fire (A Sam Hemming FBI Thriller Prequel) by Julia Payne (top 5 books to read .TXT) 📗

it. If it was in the same condition as my side of the wall, pushing on it would have caused it to come tumbling down.

I climbed in and made my way to the door. From a distance, I could hear voices coming from beyond, but they sounded like it was coming from just one man. He was on his phone, most likely. I could not understand a word he said but knew he was speaking Greek. Reaching for my holster, I retrieved my gun. Its silencer was in my utility belt, which I retrieved and screwed it on. If he was alone, I needed to neutralize him before setting off some kind of alarm or notified his comrades.

Reaching the door, I turned my flashlight off and pushed it back into its place on my belt. It took a couple of minutes for my eyes to acclimate to the darkness, but once they did, I could see that there was a sliver of light under the door.

Silently I approached. It was beginning to become apparent that it was the guard deployed to safeguard the basement. But it was just an empty room. Why would it need guarding? I thought, turning one last time to look at. Only darkness stared back.

It was another mystery I didn't need to solve at this point. Right now, I needed to get to Nyke and get him to Federal Plaza, just four blocks south. Locked and loaded, I held the Glock firmly in my right hand. With my head cocked to the right, my aim traveled down my right arm and across the muzzle of my weapon. I reach for the door with my left hand and open it as quietly as I could. The click was perceptible but barely. The Greek on the phone was still talking and focused on his call. It wasn't bad-guy stuff from the sound of it. Groveling sounds the same in any language, I guess. It had to be a girl on the other end he was chatting up.

From the crack in the door, I could see the back of his head. Before I squeezed the trigger, I looked downrange. There was no one else in the hallway to the end. I wasn't sure what was behind him. That would be to the right of the door. I had to take the risk. I stuck my head out and looked to the right. No one.

Back in my position behind the door, I looked at the Greek through the sights and squeezed the trigger. A direct hit straight into the base of his neck. Most T.V. shows love to portray headshots where there is splatter and brain matter all over the surrounding architecture. I liked going for the base of the skull. Almost no splatter and the kill are instantaneous since the spine, and spinal cord are instantly shattered. Most people hit the head or center mass because the chances of a hit are much greater. My instructor in sniper school told us that only real shooters would even dare aim for the base of the skull and not miss. Most shooters aimed for center mass because it was an easier hit. Missing by even an inch, on either side of the intended point of impact, and the victim would still receive a bone-crushing blow. But in a neck shot, an inch to the left or right could mean that the bullet just grazed the target.

I slid out of the door and walked over to the man whose friend on the other end of the line was still talking, unaware that the guy was already dead. I looked at the body and realized that his phone would be useful. I disconnected the call he was on and blocked the number, knowing that whoever was on the other end might try to call back. I also silenced the ring tone. I needed the phone to call for assistance but now was not the best time to do that. The more the night went on, the more I started to get the feeling that it was all an inside job.

I pick up his phone – an iPhone 12. All these gangster types have the latest gadgets. I should just stake out the launch day and bag all those people in line on the first day. I would probably be able to bag several mafioso types. I think to myself in a moment of levity. I realize his latest phone was a boon for me. Most of the other phones in this range had facial scanners to unlock. This one had an in-screen finger-pointer reader. I kneel and place his dead thumb on the screen, and the phone lights up. Good. It works, I think to myself as I remove the six-inch blade from my ankle holster and a slice of his thumb. I needed it to activate his phone.

Calling the Bureau was not on my immediate list of things to do. Besides, even if I did and brought it back up, they would probably be gunned down by the snipers on elevated positions. The last thing we needed was a Christmas Eve blood bath in downtown Manhattan. The FBI had already been on the receiving end of poor publicity, and this would just aggravate it.

I slid the phone into my inner breast pocket and its owner's thumb into my utility pocket by my right knee. I realize that I am still soaking wet on their inside, but no longer as cold as I was just a few minutes earlier. As I begin to move forward, it occurs to me that listening in on their conversation might be helpful, so I pull out the long-range communicator the man has clipped to his belt and disengage it from the earpiece wire that is plugged into it. I find that it accepts the same plug that's at the end of my earpiece, which means I can