Page 7 of The Sniper

“Then don’t,” I cut him off. “I’ll take care of it. You just clean up after.”

“Noah—”

I hung up. Fuck it. I’d deal with the fallout later. I settled back into position. My breathing slowed, deep and even, the world shrinking to the circle of my scope. Heartbeat steady. Pulse a faint thud in my ears. I’d done this a thousand times—more. Watched men live and die through glass, waited for the moment when chaos gave me clarity.

The man grabbed her then. Yanked her arm, dragged her in front of him, and pressed the pistol to her temple. Her head tilted slightly,blonde hairfalling across her face, but she didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. The others did—muffled cries from the huddle behind her—but she just stood there, staring him down. Brave as hell. Stupid, maybe, but brave.

I adjusted the scope, windage knob clicking softly under my fingers. Five hundred yards, ten knots crosswind, rain adding a slight deflection. I ran the numbers in my head—bullet drop, velocity, time to target. Less than a second from muzzle to skull. My finger rested on the trigger guard, light but ready. Wait for it. Wait for it.

She lurched—sudden, sharp, like she’d tripped or fought back. He lunged to prop her up, pulling her tight against his chest, the gun slipping an inch from her head. There. The gap I needed. His face bent forward, nose in my crosshairs, then cheek. Everything slowed—his snarl, her flinch, the rain streaking through the night. I exhaled, let the rhythm take over, and squeezed.

The rifle boomed in the night. The round punched through the air, invisible and inevitable. His head snapped back, a brain mist blooming in the dark, and he crumpled like a marionette with cut strings. She stumbled free, catching herself on her knees, hands braced on the wet concrete. Dead before he hit the ground.

I flicked my eyes to the tablet. Drone feed confirmed it—body down, gun dropped, women scrambling back, some screaming, some frozen. Clean kill. Center mass would’ve been safer, but I wasn’t risking her. Headshot was the only play.

The scanner erupted: “Shot fired! Where’d it come from? Anyone got eyes?” Cops yelling over each other, panic spiking now that the threat was gone. Idiots. I sighed, broke down the rifle—scope off, barrel back in the bag—and stood. My knees popped as I stretched, the adrenaline bleeding out slow. One less piece of shit on the planet. That was enough for me.

I slung the bag over my shoulder, climbed down thewall, and dropped into the alley. The truck was still warm when I slid inside, engine rumbling to life as I pulled onto the street. I drove slow toward Grace House, windows cracked, rain misting the dash. The cops would be pissed. The lieutenant might try to pin something on me—unauthorized use of force, some bullshit charge to cover his ass. I didn’t care. I’d saved lives. They could thank me or arrest me. Either way, I’d sleep fine. Jail cell or otherwise.

The shelter came into view two minutes later—squat Victorian, sagging porch, lights flickering through shattered windows. Cop cars lined the block, red and blue strobing against the wet pavement. Officers milled around, some barking orders, others taping off the scene. Drones buzzed overhead, their whine cutting through the rain. I parked a block back, killed the lights, and stepped out, bag over my shoulder again. No point in hiding. They’d figure out it was me soon enough.

I leaned against the truck, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold. Women and kids spilled out from the courtyard now, blankets draped over their shoulders, cops herding them toward ambulances. Medics moved fast, checking for injuries, barking questions. I scanned the crowd, looking for her—the blonde. She’d be there, somewhere, shaken but alive.

And then I saw her.

She stepped out from behind the gate, hair dripping, skirt clinging to her legs. Small—five-four, maybe a hundred twenty pounds—but she carried herself like she was taller. Her hands were steady as she guided a kid toward a medic, her voice cutting through the noise, calm and low. She didn’t look like a victim. Didn’t act like one either. She was directing people—volunteers,maybe cops—pointing, nodding, keeping it together while the world fell apart around her.

Something twisted in my chest. Not pity. Not lust. Something sharper. I’d seen courage before—soldiers staring down death, civilians shielding their own—but this was different. Quiet. Unyielding. Like she’d been forged in it. Something I respected.

I pushed off the truck, took a step closer, then stopped. The rifle bag felt heavier now, the weight of what I’d done settling in. I’d killed a man tonight. Watched his brains paint the concrete. And she’d been there, inches from it, staring into the abyss I’d pulled her out of. She didn’t know me. Didn’t know I’d been the one to end it. But I knew her now. Knew the shape of her in my scope, the way she’d stood when no one else could.

The scanner crackled again: “Sniper confirmed off-site. Civilian contractor. Dane, Noah. Running background.” The lieutenant’s voice cut through, tight and pissed: “Find him. Now.”

I smirked. They’d come for me soon enough. Questions. Statements. Maybe cuffs if they were feeling dramatic. I’d deal with it. Always did.

But as I watched her—Hallie Mae, I’d learn later, though the name didn’t matter yet—I felt something shift. Something I hadn’t felt in years. Not since the desert. Not since the last time I’d looked through a scope and seen more than a target.

She turned then, like she’d felt me watching. Her eyes swept the street, sharp and searching, and for a split second, they locked on mine. Blue, I thought, though it was too dark to be sure. Wide. Steady.

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

She did.

She turned back to the kid, crouched low, and said something soft I couldn’t hear. But that look—it stayed with me. Burned into me.

I’d saved her tonight.

And I knew, right then, I wasn’t done with her yet.

Not by a long shot.

3

HALLIE MAE

The smell of gunpowder still clung to the air.

Not strong—faint now, fading—but I could smell it, just under the scent of wet pavement and emergency medical tape. And I could taste it, too, in the back of my throat. Metallic. It burned.

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