Page 64 of The Sniper

You lied to me, Noah. You knew, and you let me fall for you anyway. How could you?

I gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white, imagining her stepping back, folding her arms, that preacher’s-daughter steel shutting me out.

Or worse—she’d cry, quiet, like she did after we fucked, tears soaking my chest, and I’d have no words, no way to undo what she’d seen, what she’d think of me.

What if she asked about Department 77?

What could I say—I don’t know who they are, just shadows with money and blood on their hands, and now they’ve got my face tied to your pain?

She’d never buy it.

Not after everything—her dad dead, her world cracked open, me standing there with a gun and a past that screamed guilty.

I’d try anyway—beg, maybe, if it came to that.

Hallie Mae, you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like light. Don’t make me lose you.

But even in my head, the words sounded hollow, like a con I couldn’t sell.

The truth was, I didn’t know how to fix this—didn’t know if I could.

And that scared the shit out of me.

The Soundline came into view—weatherworn, slouched against the dunes, the ocean sparkling behind it like it didn’t give a damn about the chaos unfolding.

I parked hard, tires kicking sand, and spotted her—standing near the boardwalk, sundress fluttering in the breeze, clutching that paper like it was a death sentence.

My guys were close—one by the van, one near the dunes, both stiff, watching her like hawks.

The third guy—the one who’d delivered the paper—was slumped in the back of their surveillance van, door cracked, looking like he’d seen better days.

I stepped out and her eyes hit mine—blue, wide, burning with something I’d never seen before.

Accusation.

Betrayal.

She’d tried and sentenced me before I’d even opened my mouth, and fuck, I knew I was done.

“Hallie Mae,” I started, voice low, hands up like I could calm the storm in her face.

She didn’t move—just held out the paper, arm trembling, lips pressed tight.

I took it, slow, like it might bite, and unfolded it.

My face stared back—grainy, pulled from somewhere—and below it, her dad’s, smiling in his church suit.

“TARGET & ASSOCIATE — PRIMARY & PAYOUT,” typed cold and clear, like a contract I’d never signed.

Same as Holstein’s paper, but sharper now, fresher, meant for her eyes.

My stomach twisted, bile rising, and I looked up, meeting her gaze.

“It’s not what you think,” I said, but it sounded weak, even to me.

“Then what is it?” she snapped, voice cracking, stepping closer, fists clenched like she wanted to hit me.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came—every word I’d rehearsed on the drive dissolving under the weight of her stare.

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