Page 81 of The Sniper

The salt air soaked into my lungs, sharp and familiar, but it didn’t calm the churn in my gut.

Ryker’s call to the CIA had lit a fuse—quicker than we’d expected, quicker than we were ready for.

Dusk, they’d said. Meet on a yacht in the channel. Neutral ground, a CIA rep to mediate.

I didn’t trust it—not the timing, not the place, not the players.

But we didn’t have a choice.

Department 77 had drawn blood—Hallie Mae’s dad, that junkie on the beach, Holstein—and now they were pulling us into their game, whether we liked it or not.

Ryker stood at the helm, eyes scanning the horizon, jaw tight like he was chewing nails.

Atlas was below, checking the gear—guns, comms, enough tech to make sure we weren’t walking in blind.

Hallie Mae’s face kept flashing in my head—her eyes,blue and fierce, trusting me to end this without breaking her more.

I didn’t know if I could, but I’d burn the world down trying.

The yacht loomed ahead, a sleek beast of glass and steel, lights glinting off the water like it was showing off. More billionaire playtoy than clandestine spy spot.

My hackles rose, but I kept my face blank, hand resting on the pistol at my hip.

We tied off, climbed aboard, and the crew—silent types with eyes that didn’t miss anything—led us to a deck that screamed money.

Polished wood, leather chairs, a bar stocked with bottles I’d never afford in my old life.

U.S. Senator Klein Kemper was already there, lounging like he owned the place, a glass of dark liquid in hand.

We’d met him before, cut a deal in the last mess—cool customer, slick as oil, the kind of guy who’d smile while slipping a knife in your back. He was one of Department 77’s guys, but he was one of ours, too, though he had yet to produce a single scrap of actionable intelligence, in exchange for our restraint when it came to his life.

He stood, all charm, suit crisp despite the humidity. “Gentlemen. Good to see you again.”

“Save it,” Ryker muttered, dropping into a chair, his bulk making it creak.

I stayed standing, eyes flicking to the corners—exits, shadows, anything that could hide a threat. Out there, everything was a threat. Too much open space. It felt like a suicide mission on foreign soil.

Atlas joined us, silent, his presence a wall at my back.

The CIA rep walked in—a lawyer type, mid-forties, suit cheaper than Kemper’s but sharp, like he’d ironed it on the way over.

He looked bored, clipboard under one arm, eyes scanning us like we were paperwork he’d rather shred.

“Mr. Dane, Mr. Dane, Mr. Dane,” he said, nodding to each of us, voice flat. “Let’s make this quick.”

Kemper sipped his drink, smirking. “My friends would like to point out the sins of the Dane brothers.”

I snorted, crossing my arms. “Sins, huh? That’s rich, coming from your crew.”

He didn’t flinch—just leaned back, legs crossed, like he was reciting a bedtime story. “Hypothetically, let’s say there’s a group—call it what you want—who’ve taken issue with your … extracurriculars. Black ops, wetwork, playing fast and loose with rules most folks don’t even know exist.”

“Hypothetically,” Ryker growled, “they started this by putting a bullet in a pastor’s head. And that’s only their most recent transgression.”

Kemper raised a brow, unfazed. “Did they? Or did you poke the wrong bear, and now you’re crying foul?”

I let him talk—let him spin his web, all smooth words and veiled threats.

We were wired, comms live, the crew back at Dominion listening in, ready to flag any new players or boats creeping too close.

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