Kill Shot

Mallory Rowe isn’t a hero,

she’s a government-sanctioned killing machine

Ron Lewis

© Copyright 2011/2024 by Ron Lewis

Previously published under an alternate pen name

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by Young

This story is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Kill Shot

The bed creaked and groaned in protest as the man, flat on his back, reached up to touch the woman as she gyrated above him. He loved her insatiable appetite. Her consuming yearning for lovemaking. Her body undulated, straddling him like she rode a wild horse. The woman’s lust drove her. She slid up and down him, consuming him. Throwing her head back, her red hair fell in waves as Mallory’s moans of passion escaped her.

He felt his impending climax building for the third time in an hour. Mallory Rowe sucked his energy away with her sexual appetite, and he loved every delight-charged moment.

He could do little now but lie under and enjoy her, sapping his strength. She’d be the death of him, fucking him until he passed into akhirah (the hereafter).

Her breasts danced above him as she controlled the broken once wild stallion. Holding on for the ride, he submitted to her. May Allah forgive him. Mallory’s control was something he resisted when they first met, but he welcomed it after a time with lustful glee.

This man would never find such a woman again.

As his passion overtook him, he climaxed deep inside her. The feeling overcame him as he thrust himself deep into her.

Screaming above him with lust, she sounded angry. In fact, Mallory was furious that he hadn’t lasted longer. Being it was their last time, it shouldn’t’ve ended so soon.

She rolled off him and dressed, preparing to make her departure. She looked at her watch, pleased to note she was still on schedule. While she hated his early completion, it had kept her on her timetable.

She used sex as a tool, not for her pleasure. It was a nice benefit that she loved sex. Still, she’d have enjoyed it more if this fool only had some staying power at least once.

“Woman, you’re the best screw I ever had!” The man sat up in bed and studied her body, with craving eyes, while she dressed.

She turned her head to him, smiling as she buttoned her blouse. She retrieved her purse from the dresser, reached in, and her grin twisted into a leer.

“I have a little something extra for you,” she said as her hand emerged with an automatic pistol from the purse.

He looked at her in bewilderment. Comprehension crept into his mind. He hadn’t conquered her or converted her.

“Courtesy of the United States Government.”

She was a spy, an assassin.

Mallory pulled the trigger three times while the silencer muffled the explosions, not entirely silent. The first shot hit him between the eyes. The following two bullets hit dead center in his chest. The terrorist died without a fight, his defenses down.

A thought passed through his mind as a dark nothingness encompassed his being, The bitch killed me.

Mallory Rowe pondered, as the light flickered out of his eyes, will he wake with his 90 virgins doting on his every whim? After all, she’d pulled him in expertly, like a moth to a flame, and he never knew what hit him. But for her, he’d broken the tenets of his faith. Would he still be rewarded?

Pulling a cloth from her bag, Mallory wiped the gun clean before tossing it on the bed.

Cleaning the headboard and other places she had touched, she removed all fingerprint traces. Finally, Mallory used a bleach wipe on his penis and pubic region. She cleaned under his fingernails, saving what she removed in a small bottle.

“Cheer up, sweetheart, you died in bed like you told me you wanted,” Malory Rowe said.

In five minutes, she finished the cleanup and left the room. Walking onto the busy European city street, she slipped her sunglasses on and headed for her car. She’d just killed one of the world’s most wanted terrorists.

He had died with his pants down before ever sending the plans to his underlings for the next attack. Mallory climbed into her car when she noticed a familiar car approaching the building.

Shit, she thought, I have to get out of here before they find the body.

The man waved at her as he walked up to the door and entered the house she had left. Mallory started the baby blue 1974 Trans-Am, pulling away from the curb as fast as possible, tires burning rubber and screeching. Seconds later, the man ran out screaming to his companions, who had remained in the car.

“Shit,” she said, watching the rearview mirror as the man jumped in his car, turning it around to follow her. She was five miles from her extraction point. Gunning the engine, she attempted to distance herself from her pursuers.

After spending almost three months undercover with this group, she became part of the family. However, this was one family reunion she did not want to attend.

“I don’t need this distraction,” she muttered.

As the pursuing car approached, a man leaned out of the passenger window, pistol in hand.

Mallory swerved this way and that as he fired at her car. The bulletproof rear window showed the impacts but remained unbroken.

They always do that, yet they cannot hit jack shit when they fire like that, she thought. I don’t want to kill you boys. Damn it, don’t make me!

Mallory returned her attention to the view of the road ahead.

“Oh crap,” Mallory said at the sight of children playing on the street ahead.

Rowe turned onto an old dirt road to avoid the children, and the car filled with terrorists followed her. The idiot was still leaning out, taking potshots, missing everything he aimed at. That was just as dangerous, though, as the bullets flew around, some coming close to her open window.

Pressing the automatic window buttons, they slid shut with a whining whir.

Gunning the engine, she accelerated away from them, getting out of range of pistol fire. They did not have the horsepower to stay with her, and she put some reasonable distance between them. Reaching behind the driver’s seat, she pressed a button on an oblong box, which opened the cover, revealing a familiar tube.

Pulling it out quickly, she placed it on the passenger seat.

Slamming on the brakes, she stopped the car, jumped out, tube in hand, and faced the way she had come. Spreading her legs, she shouldered the cylinder, pressed the button, and looked through the sight, waiting.

Vineyards lined the dirt road as far as the eye could see.

On any other day, she thought, this would have been a peaceful place to spend the afternoon, but not today.

The car sped into view over the crest of the hill. She lined the vehicle perfectly inside the circle and placed the crosshairs on the center of her target. Malory Rowe pressed the lock button.

“Come to momma, boys,” she said as the car loomed closer and closer.

Fully in her sights now, she squeezed the trigger. The mini-stinger raced from the tube just above the ground, covering the distance in less than a second. The small missile exploded on impact, hurling the car into the air. The gas tank exploded, ripping the vehicle and occupants apart in an orange and yellow fireball.

“Scratch three more badass terrorists!” Mallory said.

Throwing the spent tube into the trunk.

Mallor examined the burning heap of charred metal, making sure there were no survivors that needed finishing off. No point being careful only to screw it up now, she knew. Satisfied no one had survived the inferno, Mallory sped off to the rendezvous point.

The big Chinook sat on the ground with its ramp down, waiting for her. A young Naval Officer was standing in the cargo area, nervously checking his watch, when Mallory finally appeared and drove quickly up the ramp. She jumped out, and several men immediately went about securing her car as she walked up to the officer.

“Mallory D. Rowe, Lt. US Navy Reserve, request permission to come aboard, Sir,” she saluted the officer.

“Permission granted. I do hope your mission was successful. I’m afraid there is no in-flight movie today,” the officer said with a slight smile, motioning to her seat.

“My mission was most successful, sir.” Looking past him to the men securing her car, she said, “Hey boys, treat my baby well! She’s my pride and joy!”

The men all knew that, of course. She had undoubtedly told them enough times. She turned back to the young officer.

“So what’s the plan, Lt?” She questioned as they sat in their seats, buckling their seat belts. The blades began rotating as the big twin engines fired up. A low rumble shook the copter with a whish as blades turned.

“We will be landing on the USS Teddy Roosevelt in three hours. From there, ma’am, you fly on to Washington. I hope you don’t mind supersonic,” the officer paused.

“Are you kidding me? I love supersonic,” Mallory answered with a big smile.

“I am afraid your car will have a different destination,” The young officer told her as she shot a glance at him.

“They best treat her right! If they don’t... well, let’s just say it wouldn’t go too good for them,” Mallory told the Lt.

The man was unsure if she was joking.

She glanced back at the men.

They had finished stowing her car and were strapping themselves in. The helicopter lifted off the ground and turned before making its way out over the ocean. The coast of France, as well as the carnage Mallory had left in her wake, quickly dropped behind. Settling into her seat, Mallory closed her eyes, eager for sleep.

Sweet sleep without fear for her life was a rare occurrence. She dreamed of riding her horse as a young girl, rushing away from her parents. The dream ended before it turned into a nightmare.

“Mallory Dallas Rowe, designation 69A,” the Director said as he read her report. His hands fidgeted with the papers, and as he read, he glanced up occasionally, his bright blue eyes locking onto hers.

She felt strangely inadequate under his gaze, as if the Director was evaluating her and she was missing the mark. As an agent in the newest intelligence agency in the United States, Mallory Rowe did not like to miss the mark.

The new agency was less than 20 years old. Formed secretly after the 9/11 attacks. Special Intelligence Service, or SIS, had authority in both foreign and domestic situations. Unlike the FBI or CIA, they had no borders to worry about. They had more latitude than the NSA, and there was no Presidential order banning the assassination of foreign leaders.

“My goodness, woman, you weren’t authorized to kill anyone but Bushra Ben Shamoun!” He looked up at her quickly as she struck a defensive pose.

“Good work! Glad to see you take initiative,” he said, which calmed Mallory down. The Director read the report a second time while Mallory sat in silence, wondering why she was even in the Director’s office. She had only met the Director once in her five years as an agent and had never been in his office.

Knowledge of Mallory Rowe’s darker side had come to the Director’s attention. A Field agent walking a fine line between duty and darker influences was not an uncommon occurrence.

As a matter of policy, these types of personalities were recruited.

That was a preview of Kill Shot. To read the rest purchase the book.

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