Shot to the Hart - A Novella

Chapter 1: Target Acquired

One shot. That's all it would take to end this terrible, long-ass day; this whole career in fact. Although someone out there was going to have a worse day than she was having. It would be last day of his life.

Nadia Hart adjusted her black ball cap and peered through the scope of her rifle. Typically she preferred a semi-automatic, but for this job she needed a bolt-action rifle. Both had their advantages and disadvantages, the bolt was the most accurate for this type of gig — easy to maintain, less recoil and unlikely to give away her position.

It was busy normal down on the city street; luxury SUVs pulled up to the hotel and spilled out their passengers quickly before slinking back into traffic. The sky was wet concrete and there was a fine mist hovering over the city that threatened to become rain. That didn't bother Nadia. She was a professional and could make the shot with her eyes closed, in the middle of a hurricane.

Luckily the wind speed was holding steady at four knots, barely qualifying as a light breeze. The slightest shift in the wind could impact her trajectory. Atmospheric data was just one component in her meticulous research, and it was as important as having an escape plan. Everything must be anticipated, and a Plan B in place should things go sideways. She always had a Plan B. She just never had to use it before.

Nadia prided herself on her reputation. She was legendary in the business for a reason — clients could count on her, not sometimes. Every time. That's why at just 31 years old, her offshore bank account was approaching seven figures. After years in this dirty business the retirement she so craved was now in sight. Nothing to do but sit on a beach under an umbrella with a good book and drink what's left of her life away. Try and forget.

It was so close now she could taste it; she could reach out her hand and nearly grasp it.

One shot and she was free.

She leaned back from the scope and gave her head a quick shake, focusing back in on the street and recognizing the car she'd been waiting for as it approached the hotel. It was unmistakable to her trained eye – an armoured Lexus SUV. She expected nothing less for the son of one of the most notorious mob families in the history of Boston.

But it wasn't bombs and grenades Salvatore DeMarco needed to fear. It was her.

The car door opened, and he stepped out into the mist. Tall, as they described, six two at least with a pro wrestler's build. The razor-sharp Canali suit stretched taut across his broad shoulders — Italian luxury at its finest — and his dark blond hair was cut into a sharp fade. She could just make out the tattoo on the back of his neck, the Trinacria. From far away, it almost looked like a sun but she knew it was the three-legged woman symbolizing Sicily.

The tattoo match confirmed it was him. But she had to be sure.

"Salvatore, what brought me to your door," she muttered, crouching into position. She didn't think about the subjects much, who they were or what they did. She was only told the bare minimum about them, and Nadia thought if she was sent their way, chances are they deserved it. She didn't have much of a conscience but what little she had spared women and children. X knew never to send any of them her way, families were out of bounds and if they wanted to shoot a woman or a kid they could look elsewhere for that.

Her reservation in hell was well secured, but she wasn't that kind of evil.

But Salvatore DeMarco was well within her scope, literally and figuratively. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes then exhaled slowly feeling the familiar rush like sparks through her blood that preceded every shot. Then all internal systems in her body slowed; she could almost imagine her blood stilling and her heart paused mid-beat. Her eyes opened and she placed the crosshairs into position. All he had to do was turn around for a final face ID. He was still speaking to someone on the phone with his back to her, but that was okay. She was ready. And she was patient.

Finally, he turned. The scope's crosshairs were perfectly placed in the middle of his forehead. She was a millisecond from pulling the trigger when she saw his eyes and the shock of recognition made her flinch.

He looked completely different from the photo she was given; the beard was gone, and he was clean shaven. It couldn't be, but it was.

She gasped and pulled back from the scope, her finger falling away from the trigger.

"Sal?!"