Page 6 of The Sniper

“You left me,” he spat. “You ran, you bitch.”

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t blink.

The toddler whimpered against her shoulder.

“I ain’t gonna hurt nobody—unless you make me.” He waved the gun in a slow, manic arc. “I just want my daughter. That’s my blood.”

Someone sobbed behind me. Another whispered a prayer. The storm shelter door was still closed—maybe locked from the inside—but everyone else had been herded out by my stupid order. And now we were all here.

Cornered.

He backed up toward the courtyard gate and kicked it shut. Slammed the bolt across. Then raised the gun again, lips curling.

“Y’all wanna play saviors? Fine. Then y’all can sit real quiet until someone figures out you stole my family.”

He wasn’t just angry. He wanted control. He wanted everyone to see him take it. And now, he had it.

The courtyard—meant to be our safe place—had become a cage.

And we were locked inside.

With him.

2

NOAH

I’d spent the afternoon at the long range, squeezing off rounds until the barrel of my rifle was warm and my shoulders ached just enough to feel alive. The sun had dipped low over Charleston, painting the sky a bruised purple, and I still didn’t want to go home. Dominion Hall loomed in my head like a weight I couldn’t shake—too many brothers, too many questions, too much noise about Department 77. That shadow outfit, tied to the CIA or something worse, had been twisting our lives into knots for weeks. I was sick of it. Sick of the theories, the late-night strategy sessions, the way every conversation circled back to the same damn mystery. I didn’t want to sit across from Atlas or Ryker or Marcus and hear another word about it—not tonight.

Overseas, things had been simpler. Cleaner. Someone handed me a target—coordinates, a name, a face—and I took it out. No debates. No politics. Just me, my rifle, my spotter, and a job to do. I’d lie in the same spot for days sometimes, belly in the dirt, sweat stingingmy eyes, waiting for the perfect shot. Wind speed, distance, elevation—I’d calculate it all in my head, let my spotter confirm, let my body settle into the rhythm of the kill. I was one of the best. Not arrogance, just fact. Professional pride, sure, but it stopped there. I didn’t give a damn about glory. The scumbags I dropped—warlords, traffickers, men who’d carved bloody paths through innocent lives—they’d asked for it. Begged for it, even, with every choice they made. I was only too happy to deliver. I was the one way ticket puncher straight to hell.

So instead of hitting a bar, drowning myself in bourbon, and dragging some girl back to a bed I’d forget by morning, I drove. Out past the city limits, through the quiet sprawl of the outskirts, the hum of my truck’s engine keeping me company. The police scanner crackled on the passenger seat, a habit I’d picked up years ago. I liked the chatter—dispatch codes, clipped voices, the occasional spike of adrenaline when something real broke through. It was a siren call, pulling me toward duty when I didn’t even know I was looking for it.

I’d just crossed into Mount Pleasant when it came. Static, then a burst of urgency: “Possible hostage situation, Grace House shelter. Armed male, multiple civilians on site. Requesting all available units.” The squawk of back-and-forth filled the cab—dispatch scrambling, officers checking in, voices tight with the kind of edge that said they’d been caught flat-footed. I knew why. Most of the quick reaction forces—the ones I’d trained myself, the ones who specialized in this exact shit—were up at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, running drills with the Marines. Bad timing. Real bad.

I pieced it together fast. Domestic abuse shelter. A man with a grudge. Women and kids trapped inside. I’d seen it before—too many times—over there and here. The kind of guy who thought love was a fist and a leash, who’d rather burn the world down than let it turn without him. I floored the gas, peeling around a corner, tires biting asphalt as I headed toward the address. I wasn’t on the clock. Wasn’t even supposed to be here. But I’d stick around. If they needed another gun, I’d be it.

The closer I got, the clearer the picture became. The scanner lit up with updates: “Units en route, ETA fifteen minutes. Drones deployed—visual confirmation of suspect in courtyard.” Drones. Lucky me. Dominion Defense Corporation—my family’s business—had trained the local PD on those birds. High-res, thermal-capable, quiet as death. I had a backdoor into the feed, a little perk of being one of the guys who wrote the manual. I propped my tablet against the dash, tapped into the stream, and watched the scene unfold as I drove.

The courtyard glowed in the low light of night, shadows stretching long across cracked concrete. The drones cycled through angles—one by one, the feeds popped up on my screen. Women huddled together, some clutching kids, their faces pale and tight with fear. A man stood in the center, big and sloppy, waving a pistol like it was a goddamn toy. And then there was her—a woman, slight but steady, planted between him and the others. Hair plastered wet against her skull, hands raised, eyes locked on him. She wasn’t running. She was holding ground.

I did the geometry in my head. Five hundred yardsfrom the retail strip of Ben Sawyer—low rooftops, clear sightlines, minimal wind interference tonight despite the rain. I pulled up a satellite view on Google Maps to confirm. Perfect. A minute later, I swung the truck into an alley, killed the engine, and grabbed my rifle bag from the back. The weight of it settled over my shoulder like an old friend. I hopped a row of bushes, scaled a wall with a quick pull of my arms, and hauled myself onto the roof of a shuttered hardware store. The gravel crunched under my boots as I crouched low, moving to the edge.

The drone footage still streamed on my tablet, propped against the chest-high parapet. The man was pacing now, gun loose in his hand, shouting something I couldn’t hear. The woman—the one standing her ground—shifted slightly, her posture rigid but unshaken. I unzipped the bag, pulled out my rifle—a custom-built beauty—and set it up with practiced ease. Bipod down, scope dialed in, coat folded under the stock for extra stability. I dropped lower, cheek pressed to the rest, and peered through the optic.

There he was. Five hundred yards out. Drifting in an out of my crosshairs thanks to an awning. Big bastard—six-two, maybe two-fifty, soaked flannel hanging off him like a rag. The pistol glinted in his hand. Sloppy grip. Drunk, maybe high. Unpredictable. The woman stood close—too close—his arm brushing hers as he waved the gun. I could take him. Cakewalk for a man who’d dropped targets at over a mile. But she was in the way. I wouldn’t risk her. Couldn’t.

The scanner squawked louder now: “No SWAT on site. Nearest sniper’s twenty minutes out. Suspect’s escalating—possible shots fired earlier.” The cops were panicking, voices overlapping, no one stepping up to takecharge. Their best leaders were in North Carolina, and this thing was spiraling fast. I grabbed my phone, dialed the lieutenant on duty— a guy I’d trained with a few times. He picked up on the second ring.

“Dane? The hell you calling for?” His voice was clipped, strained.

“I’m on the roof at Old Mill and Main,” I said, keeping it flat. “Got eyes on your suspect. Five hundred yards. Clean shot if I get it.”

“This is police business, Noah. Stand down.”

“Fucking wake up,” I snapped. “You’ve got no one close. People are gonna die unless someone does something. I’m here. I can end it.”

There was a pause—too long. I could hear him breathing, hear the gears turning as he weighed his career against the lives in that courtyard. “I can’t authorize that. You’re not?—”

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