It wouldn’t be pretty. Death never was, but it would be an act full of stealth, precision and deadly accuracy, performed by the best that there was.

Jaxon threw his satchel to the ground as his eyes fell to the semi frozen earth at his feet. The coolness of late spring lingered there and his quivering nostrils inhaled a fresh, crisp shot of air, blowing out a fine mist of warmth in return. He was well over six feet in height and moved with a sinuous grace that was at odds with someone of his size. His features were dark, a true reflection of both his Spanish heritage and the emotions at war inside his body.

He was tense, and took a few seconds to calm his spirit, his black eyes quickly scanning the small knoll where he stood. The slope was steady and crested down into the valley, where it rushed up against the outskirts of the small town of Winterhaven.

A muscle worked its way sharply across Jaxon’s cheek and he clenched his teeth in an effort to maintain control. Off into the distance, the last lingering rays of sun painted a vibrant picture of reds, oranges and yellows in the sky. Dusk was rapidly approaching and nervous energy clawed at his insides, as thoughts of his forthcoming mission slammed into him.

It was time to put old ghosts to rest and move on.