Dark Hunger Read Free Page B

distract him from the kill. And he was primed and ready to take this man’s life.
    The target was Carim Vigontol, an American-born terrorist who had single-handedly supplied massive amounts of weapons to terrorist cells that were responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent men, women, and children.
    According to the latest intel in a phone call from his handler, Vigontol had provided the material for the Savannah bombings.
    Quinton stared at the son of a bitch with hatred.
    Dammit.
He
was partly responsible. If he hadn’t let Annabelle Armstrong distract him, he might have stopped the old man and saved lives.
    The images of the maimed and charred bodies congregated in his head, gnawing at his control and the rage eating his soul. The women and children shouldn’t have been murdered.
    And now, in the aftermath of their deaths, Vigontol was relaxing on a sunny, powdery beach feeding his slovenly, sick urges with expensive caviar, tequila, and women.
    It was Vigontol’s turn to feel pain. To taste the bullet as it sliced through his temple and exploded in his brain.
    Quinton had stalked his movements the past year, detailing his habits, his likes and dislikes, his schedule. He even knew what time of day the man took a crap. Vigontol liked rough sex with young girls. Drugs. And flowers, for God’s sake.
    A sarcastic laugh caught in Quinton’s parched throat. His target didn’t mind killing people, but he tended his roses as if they were his babies.
    His downfall—he thought he was safe.
    A slow smile slid onto Quinton’s face, and he gripped the M24 with ice-cold fingers itching to pull the trigger.
    Then the woman appeared. Through the sliding glass doors, the whore slithered into the living room, her double-D breasts spilling over scraps of red lace, the thigh-high stockings covering her legs inching up toward a crotch shaved clean. He’d seen her before. Beautiful. Alluring. A woman who’d feed a man’s every twisted fetish.
    She knew what Vigontol was and gave herself to him anyway. And she’d helped him smuggle the fucking guns into the States.
    Making her a child killer, too.
    Still, his body hardened as the man tore the lace bra from her breasts, then used a pocketknife to shred the stockings from her legs. With a slap of his hairy hand, he shoved her to her knees. Though Quinton couldn’t hear the target’s command, he knew what the man had told her to do.
    And she complied. She jerked his pants down and freed the man’s stubby dick, then her tongue flicked out and trailed across its engorged head.
    Quinton’s own cock twitched in his pants. Raw animal sex was something he understood.
    He especially liked to watch.
    Yet he didn’t let it distract him from tuning in to the sounds around him in case of a surprise attack. Security guards were, after all, everywhere. And armed heavily.
    The whore sucked and licked, squeezing her hand around Vigontol’s balls and teasing as she drew his cock deeper into her mouth.
    Finally she pumped him until Vigontol began to come, then she cradled his dick and let him spray her face with his sticky white juices. Smiling, she lapped him up, cleaning him from head to base.
    Finished, Vigontol pushed her aside, yanked up his pants, and poured himself a Bloody Mary.
    Quinton braced himself, knowing the time had come. The man might have chosen to hide out in the Keys, but Quinton had easily found him. It was, after all, what he’d been trained to do since he was a child.
    Track and kill.
    Vigontol moved from the inside of the cabana to the brick patio where he stood, drink in hand. He clipped a bloodred rose from one of his prized bushes and sniffed it as he walked toward the hammock. Clear blue water lapped slowly against the shore, the waning sun streaking the majestic gardens with orange and purple rays, the air stirring with the scent of lush green life.
    A beautiful day to die.
    Then Vigontol’s gaze shifted around the compound as if he sensed Quinton was in