Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,72

figure this out, it’s him.

30

Dante

I can’t be certain whether the sniper is local or not, but I believe he is.

It’s not easy to transport that kind of equipment internationally. Better to use a local shooter—if you can find anyone with the skills to handle a job like that.

And I do think an arrogant fuck like Kenwood would order the hit somewhere he could see it. What’s the fun of having an enemy murdered if you can’t watch the fall-out?

I’m pretty sure that gunpowder was a nitrocellulose propellant. Du Pont manufactures it in a plant in Delaware. That type of powder is less common than it used to be, when Du Pont was the main supplier for the military.

That makes me think the sniper is either old, or they have some attachment to that particular mix. I wonder if the propellant was supplied to any other group, besides the army?

Other than that, I don’t have any leads.

Except the note.

I know who you are.

What does it mean? It was obviously left for me by the shooter. I’m sure he was pissed that I fucked up his job. He won’t get paid, since Solomon didn’t go down.

But why the note? If he found my house and he wanted revenge, he could have just hidden in the bushes and take a shot at me.

I know who you are.

Was he just letting me know he tracked me down? It wouldn’t have been all that hard to do—the botched assassination attempt was all over the news. Against my preferences, Yafeu Solomon openly identified me as the person who intervened. Finding my house would have been simple.

No, the message means more than that.

I know who you are.

He’s talking about my time in the military. I was part of the second wave of soldiers sent back overseas after the Islamic State seized swaths of Iraq and Syria. We worked with the Iraqi forces to retake Mosul, Anbar, and Fallujah.

Snipers were crucial, since most of the fighting took place in urban environments. We covered the ground troops while they surged through the cities, clearing building after building.

Sometimes rival snipers had their own perches, and we had to triangulate, set up smoke screens, and try to flush them out. If we were the forward guard, the sniper battles lasted for days.

I had a hundred and sixty-two confirmed kills. The army gave me a Silver Star and Three Bronze Stars.

None of that means a fuckin’ thing to me. But it means something to other people. Maybe to this other sniper.

He’s decided we’re antagonists. Rivals.

I take his bullet out of my pocket and roll it between my fingers again. He left that for me as a warning.

I try to think what his next move will be. Attacking Solomon again? Attacking me?

I’m seething with frustration. I don’t know this man—so I can’t guess how he thinks.

The only way to figure out who he is, is to figure out who hired him. So for that reason, I do need to visit Roland Kenwood.

We don’t exactly move in the same circles. While there’s some overlap with Callum Griffin and the politicians Kenwood keeps in his pocket, the rest of his connections are among the famous faces of Chicago. Kenwood is a “star-fucker,” for lack of a better term. He’s known for throwing glitzy and glamorous parties, stuffed with musicians, athletes, models, and, of course, writers.

Kenwood’s publishing house specializes in memoirs. He’s put out several of the bestselling autobiographies of the last decade, including those of the last two presidents.

That’s why I think I might actually need Simone after all.

I’m not famous—not even close. But she is.

Even if Kenwood hates Yafeu Solomon with every fiber of his being, Simone could get into one of his parties. She’d be the crown jewel of the event—one of the most famous faces on the planet.

I don’t like the idea. First, because every second I spend around her is pure torture. And second, because Kenwood is dangerous. I already hate the fact that Simone is spending time with her father while he’s got a target painted on his back. The thought of bringing her right into the lion’s den makes me sick.

But I don’t see any way around it.

I text her, because I don’t think I can stomach hearing her voice over the phone.

Roland Kenwood is throwing a party tomorrow night. You want to come with me?

Simone responds immediately:

I’m in.

We pull up to the gates of Kenwood’s estate in River North. I can already hear the thumping dance music coming