Beside Beckett, Richard Miller—his father’s old protégé and a man who treated war like a chess match—watched through a spotter scope.
"Target neutralized," Miller said, finally lowering his binoculars. "One shot. Ultimate kill."
In the tower, the shadow shifted. A muzzle rose. Beckett had a split second—the space between heartbeats. He didn't think about the politics or the cartel money. He thought about the lead. He exhaled, feeling the "natural respiratory pause" his father had taught him a lifetime ago. Crack.