By J. R. Roberts
Operating FOR HIS lifestyles
Someone's been utilizing a gun to solid his vote, killing 11 applicants for the us congress over 8 years. Exhausted of their look for the offender, the key provider has determined to take advantage of anyone at the inside of to finish the bloodshed--the Gunsmith, Clint Adams.
Clint quickly unearths himself in Austin, dwelling in a posh residence with a butler and a cook dinner who makes the simplest peach pie he's ever tasted. His attractive secretary Carla kinds him right into a distinctive candidate, dressing him within the best outfits and taking him to events to fulfill crusade donors. however the Gunsmith larger no longer get too cozy. even if he's been requested to run as a democrat, the streets will quickly be operating red...
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Additional info for Deadly Election (Gunsmith, Book 374)
Sample text
Life, he decided, was all about trade-offs. They’d been in the hills for two days, all of it on the move, sleeping two to three hours a night. He was part of the special operations team of the 75th Ranger Regiment, based permanently at Fort Benning, Georgia, where there was a nice NCO club with good beer on tap. By closing his eyes and concentrating, he imagined he could still taste the cold beer, but that moment passed quickly. He had to focus here, every second. They were fifteen thousand feet above sea level, in the Hindu Kush mountains, in that gray zone that was both Afghanistan and Pakistan, and neither—at least to the locals.
Hadn’t moved at all. Driscoll brought his M4 up, settled the sights on the nape of the man’s neck, and then tightened his finger on the trigger. Easy, easy … squeeze … Pop. Not much of a sound. Hard to hear at all at a range of more than fifty meters, but the bullet flew true and transited the target’s head, leaving a puff of green vapor behind, and he went off to see Allah, or whatever god he acknowledged; at twenty-odd years old, growing and eating and learning, and probably fighting, came to an abrupt and unwarned end.
Wrong gomer was his immediate thought, followed by Shit. The face was the embodiment of confusion and shock. He was shaking his head, trying to get his brain initialized, but young and tough as he was, he wasn’t fast enough for the necessities of the moment. Near the back wall of the chamber Driscoll saw movement, a shadow hunched over, sliding along the rock wall. Not moving toward them but somewhere else. Driscoll holstered his pistol, turned to Tait, then pointed at the gomer on the ground—Cuff ’em—then flipped on his NV and dropped the M4’s sights over the moving shadow.