id="u2299f7f1-eacb-5893-97f2-0a0fd28198c6">
Terms of Attraction
Kylie Brant
Table of Contents
KYLIE BRANT is a bestselling, award-winning author of twenty-five novels. When she’s not dreaming up stories of romance and suspense, she works as a teacher for learning-disabled children.
Kylie invites readers to check out her website at www.kyliebrant.com for news, backlist and information about upcoming releases. She can be contacted by e-mail at [email protected].
For Keaden, my newest grandson,
who already owns a piece of my heart.
Acknowledgements
As always, a huge thank-you to Kyle Hiller, Captain, Special Response Team, for your generous assistance. I’m awed by both your knowledge and your dedication to duty!
Ava Carter lay motionless atop the gravel and tar flat roof squinting through the Nightforce scope of the Remington 700 rifle. She’d been in position for nearly four hours; under a “weapons tight” command for two. If all went according to plan, the subject would be on his way—in one piece—in less than fifteen minutes.
The rheumy late February sun labored to pierce the light cloud cover, and there was small blessing in that. Temperatures still hovered in the high sixties. And even without direct sunlight she could feel a thin trickle of perspiration snaking down her back beneath the LBV vest.
The breeze kissing her cheek seemed to have gotten a little stronger. “Check the wind meter again.”
Her spotter, Steve Banes, held up the pocket calibrator. “Six point two four miles per hour.”
Ava adjusted the dope of her rifle slightly. Steve picked up his high-powered binoculars again and spoke into the Motorola radio. “Side three, opening three. No movement.”
She reached for her own set of binoculars. Through them she could clearly see the black RV that served as the SWAT command center parked a hundred yards from the civic center. She could make out the figure of a man through one of the windows, hunched over a computer.
Her gaze passed over the RV to scan the area. She and Steve were positioned on top of a building across the road about eight hundred yards from the civic center. The building they were observing was circular, with an oddly pitched roof that was supposed to enhance the acoustics inside. Beneath the overhang were narrow windows encircling the building.
The inner perimeter seemed secure. The interested public was still inside listening to Antonio de la Reyes. But it was his detractors that were cause for concern.
From this angle she could only see a corner of the group of protesters and media vans secured behind the outer perimeter in front of the civic center. There were still a few signs waving, but a majority of the picketers had wisely decided to save their strength for when de la Reyes made his exit.
Hopefully once they figured out he wasn’t coming out the front, de la Reyes would be on his way to the airport. Out of Metro City. Out of California and back to his small South American country of San Baltes.
Good riddance.
It wasn’t his politics Ava objected to, though his eloquent arguments for opening the borders of America didn’t resonate for her. It was the target he presented. In the last week alone, as he’d traveled the country, he’d received almost a dozen death threats. Pretty unpopular for a visiting dignitary. She’d heard there was a small rebel contingent in his own country that was just as anxious to see him dead.
She was only anxious to see him gone.
“What’s he even doing here?” grumbled Banes. He was a large man, heavily muscled. His shaved head was the color of her morning double mocha latte and glistened with sweat.
“He has relatives here, I think I heard. His mother lived in Metro City until the seventies.”
Banes’s droopy dark mustache twitched in what might have been a smirk. “Like you’d remember anything about the seventies.”
“Just
