Ghost Sniper by Scott McEwen

bar, making steam straight for his table. He glanced involuntarily over his shoulder, hoping he’d misjudged her heading, but there wasn’t anyone seated behind him.
    â€œShit,” he muttered, exhaling as he adjusted his posture to crush out the cigarette in an ashtray on the table.
    Lena’s look lost its severity as she approached the table and smiled. “I haven’t seen you on the slopes all week,” she said in perfect English. She sipped from the martini, the color of her crimson lipstick unmistakable at his range. “Yet I’ve seen you here in the lodge every night.”
    Clearing his throat, Gil recalled the .308 that had nearly severed her spinal column only hours before. “I keep to the easier runs. I’m more of a novice.”
    â€œMay I sit down?”
    â€œSure,” he said, feeling himself quicken. He’d been separated from his wife, Marie, for more than a year now and hadn’t been with anyone else in all that time.
    She reached for his pack of cigarettes, her eyes questioning.
    He nodded and picked up the lighter as she poked a cigarette between her lips. He lit it for her with the Zippo, and she sat back, exhaling through tightly pursed lips.
    â€œYou’re married,” she said, a little sad suddenly. “I can tell.”
    He smiled in spite of himself. “Separated, actually.”
    â€œAmerican?”
    â€œCanadian,” he said quickly.
    She took a drag from the cigarette. “I don’t blame you for lying. I imagine you’re better received as a Canadian when you travel.”
    He chuckled. “What makes you think I’m lying?”
    A hint of her sternness returned. “I spent a year with a man who served with the British SAS. You have his same restless look, so ifyou’re really Canadian, you must be a soldier—and not just an ordinary one.”
    Gil realized that Marie would have this same kind of intuition about any Special Forces operative that she would meet, so he decided to meet Lena halfway, taking his Canadian passport from his back pocket and setting it on the table. “I’m retired from the CSOR.”
    She reached for the passport. “Which is?”
    â€œCanadian Special Operations Regiment.”
    She opened the passport to read his name. “So I guess that’s a point for me then, isn’t it, Conner MacLoughlin?”
    He took a moment to light a cigarette for himself, tossing the lighter onto the table. “Are we keeping score?”
    She was looking him in the eyes. “Would you like to keep score?”
    Fuck it , he thought to himself. “Yes, I would. What’s your name?”
    â€œI’m Lena.” She offered her hand.
    The spark of chemistry was instantaneous, and Gil knew he was in trouble. “Where are the men I’ve seen you with?”
    â€œThey’re upstairs with their cigars, playing cards.” Her annoyance was palpable. “One of them is my fiancé. Does that bother you?”
    He took a drag. “Should it?”
    She shrugged, tipping an ash into the ashtray. “He’s a rich and powerful man—or so many people believe.”
    â€œDo you?”
    She shrugged again. “Money is power—and he has more than most people can imagine.”
    Gil took a drink. “You’re pissed he left you alone tonight.”
    She smiled wryly. “But I’m not alone.”
    â€œHis men carry guns. I’m not lookin’ to get shot.”
    Lena laughed. “Is that something you worry about?”
    â€œAlways,” he said, shaping the ash against the rim of the ashtray.
    Twenty minutes later, they stood naked before one another at the foot of Gil’s bed, and Lena was touching the battle scars that covered his muscular torso. “My,” she whispered, feeling a warmth between her legs. “The things you must have seen and done.”
    â€œYou don’t wanna know the things I’ve