Page 58 of The Sniper

Her dad was dead because of me—because they’d looped me in, made me the payout for a kill I hadn’t ordered, hadn’t even known about.

Hallie Mae’s grief, her screams in that morgue, the way she’d broken against me—it was all on my hands, my failure, my shadow pulling her world apart.

I switched my pistol for the 9mm I’d swiped from his table, checked the mag—full, ready, the grip slick from his greasy hands.

Holstein’s eyes lit up, like we were bartering at a flea market. “That’s my gun, man, but I’ll sell it to ya—couple extra hundred bucks, we’re square.”

“No thanks,” I said, voice flat, and shot him twice in the forehead.

The rounds punched clean—red mist blooming, his head snapping back, body slumping fast, cartoons still blaring in the background, SpongeBob’s laugh a sick counterpoint to the silence that followed.

He was gone before he settled, pipe rolling away, smoke curling lazy in the stale air, his grin frozen like he’d never seen it coming.

I stood there, gun still raised, breath steady, watching the blood pool under him, dark and thick on the filthy carpet.

I didn’t feel a thing—no rush, no guilt, just the cold clarity of a job done.

But it wasn’t done, not really.

This was just the start, a loose thread in a web I hadn’t mapped yet.

I wiped the 9mm down—slow, thorough, no prints, no trace—and dropped it next to him, the metal clattering soft against the clutter.

Slipped out the back, locked the door behind me, and melted away, the neighborhood quiet like it hadn’t heard a thing.

The air was heavy, wet, carrying the faint bite of salt from the harbor miles away.

I walked back to the truck, the paper burning a hole in my pocket, its weight heavier than the gun I’d just fired.

Knew I was in deep shit—deeper than I’d ever been, deeper than any desert firefight or jungle ambush.

Department 77 didn’t just kill a pastor—they’d framed me for it, tied me to a hit I didn’t call, made me a cog in their machine.

And Hallie Mae—her grief, her pain, the way she’d looked at me like I could hold her together—it was all on me, my fault, my shadow dragging her into this.

I climbed into the truck, started the engine, and sat there, hands tight on the wheel, the reality sinking in like a blade twisting slow.

Didn’t know how to fix it—didn’t know if I could.

But I’d find them—every last bastard who’d touched this, who’d written my name on that paper, who’d taken her dad and left her screaming.

I’d hunt them, track them, make them bleed—slow, personal, the way I’d learned in places where mercy was just a word nobody spoke.

For her.

For him.

For the joy I’d tasted with her—bright, fleeting, gone now, drowned in the blood I’d just spilled.

The drive back to Dominion Hall was a blur—empty roads, the city holding its breath like it knew what I’d done.

I parked, killed the engine, and sat there, staring at the dashboard, the paper still in my pocket, a ticking bomb I couldn’t defuse.

My phone buzzed—Ryker, probably, or Atlas with more intel—but I didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Needed a minute to let it settle, to feel the weight of what I’d learned, what I’d done.

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