Page 1 of Targeted By Love

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MAYNARD

I hit the trail, not speed walking, sprinting, or making exaggerated grunts, and there was no dawdling. Nothing that would get people’s attention.

I was dressed in black, the most popular color for joggers, walkers, and lingerers who drank coffee and chatted rather than exercised. With a dark gray hoodie over the brown wig atop my head, along with the fake mustache and beard, I was no different than anyone else exercising on the cloudy day.

Except I was.

There was water in the small backpack, while the bum bag slung around my hips contained a weapon. A Glock 19 with a silencer that could not be traced was my weapon of choice, and it rested against my belly as I strode along the path, not breaking a sweat.

My target used the adjoining bike trail every Monday and Friday after work with his buddies. But though today was Friday, he’d be here without his friend group. They were at a conference, and he planned on coming alone, saying work was a so-and-so and he needed to let off steam.

Considering it was his company and he was prepping to go public, he was definitely stressed. The guy spent most of his waking hours staring at his computer, yelling into the phone, or pacing the meeting room while his lackeys followed his shouted instructions.

And how was I aware of this? Spyware on his phone and hidden cameras in the company headquarters courtesy of an electrician who happened to be my cousin. Keeping things in the family was how I preferred to work.

I didn’t think about this human whose life I was going to end other than that he’d wasted a lot of years making money. He couldn’t take it with him where he was going.

But he was also a bad man. He might have a squeaky-clean appearance now that he was in his forties. In his college years, he’s hurt a lot of people, scaring them inside and out. And I had no qualms of taking money from my anonymous client and administering justice.

It was unusual to know so much about a target, but it was necessary in this case, as the guy had personal security, except when he was biking. Big mistake!

Rounding a bend, I checked the trail in either direction, and with no one in sight, I snuck into the undergrowth, making no sound. I might’ve been in human form, not my wolf, but I was at home in the forest.

When I reached the bike trail at a place shrouded in shadows, I stripped off my clothes, rolling them into a tight ball and stuffing them in the pack. Removing the gun, I attached the silencer and kneeled, my breath slow and even. My heartbeat didn’t raceahead, my pulse was steady, and my gaze was fixed on the spot my quarry would meet his end.

My shifter hearing picked up the faint whooshing of air as it flowed in and around the bike and rider. The tires hummed on the rough ground, and there was a clicking when the chain moved over the gears.

As the cyclist drew closer, the wind carried his labored breathing and grunts while he maneuvered over the trail. I’d chosen my position and the direction of the shot so he and his bike would crash into the undergrowth and topple down a bank. He’d be oozing maggots before anyone knew he was missing because his phone was off.

Masquerading as him, I would send a message to his assistant later sayingWorking from home tomorrow. It wouldn’t raise suspicion, as it wasn’t uncommon when he didn’t want to be bothered. And when the police checked the location of the sender of the message, it’d be outside his apartment. Not that I was a tech whiz, but I’d had someone show me how to do it. That someone was one of my brothers, but neither he nor the rest of my family were aware of what I was up to.

Not that they would find my target because I had a secret weapon that wasn’t the gun in my hand.

Aiming the Glock, I closed one eye, counted the seconds until he was at X marked the spot, and pulled the trigger. There was no scream or last words. It was instant and the target tumbled down the slope. When he came to rest, he was partly covered by leaves.

There was no need to check if he’d breathed his last breath. I didn’t miss. A bullet to the forehead. And I didn’t have to hidethe body or dig a shallow grave. There’d be little evidence by morning, other than a mangled bike.

The local wolves, not shifters but our wild cousins, would take care of the remains.

They don’t eat the body, my beast protested. He’d kept quiet while I was working, knowing I needed to concentrate.

No. They do what they have to do. I didn’t inquire what exactly because my beast communicated to them last week that I needed a favor. How he did that I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, even though I was there, inside him. But I was thankful for his and their help.

With the gun in the bag, I placed it in the pack and lay it on the ground before my wolf took his fur. Gripping the pack in his mouth, he took off through the woods. As we neared the entrance to the park, he gave me my skin and I got dressed and put on the fake beard and wig again.

With sunglasses perched on my nose, I moseyed onto the trail, shoving both hands in my pockets and sauntering home.

Job well done.

Making sure the VPN was engaged on my laptop, I messaged the person who’d hired the hit on an app—one that used the most stringent of safety protocols—telling them it was done.

No trace?

None.

I was paid by crypto, and seconds later, after checking my account, I was satisfied the funds had been transferred.