Page 87 of The Sniper

My brothers were around me—Ryker pacing like a caged animal, Atlas leaning over a map, Marcus on a secure line, his voice crackling through static.

The call had come fast, brutal, like a guillotine dropping.

The CIA was on our side. Their response was ice-cold and final: take them out.

Not just Dominion Defense Corporation against a rogue outfit anymore—it was the United States government, greenlighting annihilation.

Every brother was called in, all hands on deck, except Charlie, lost deep in the South American jungle doing relief work, and Silas, being Silas, unreachable, probably off chasing ghosts or tail.

The CIA offered assets—drones, teams, firepower—but Ryker shut that down quick.

“We handle it,” he’d growled, and I’d agreed.

This was ours—our blood, our war, our reckoning.

The Agency didn’t argue, just promised to cordon off Charleston, seal the exits, cut off any retreat or backup for 77.

That left us free—unleashed—to do whatever it took to end them.

Anything and everything.

Kemper, sweating through his suit, had been more than happy to point us to their staging ground: a house on Kiawah Island, Thumb Point, a small peninsula jutting into the Kiawah River.

They owned the whole damn spit—private, isolated, perfect for their kind of work.

We pored over maps, satellite shots, the river’s curves glowing under Atlas’s finger as he traced approach routes.

Land was a trap—one way in.

Water could work, but tides were a bitch, and a wrong move could strand us in the shallows.

Air was tempting—drop in fast, hit hard—but without solid intel on 77’s numbers or defenses, we’d be jumping blind into a meat grinder.

The CIA was working on imagery, feeding us what they could, but it wasn’t enough, not yet.

“Two ways,” Atlas said, voice low, steady. “Land and sea. Split their focus, hit ‘em from both sides.”

I nodded, my gut twisting. “Who’s where?”

“Me on the ground,” Atlas said, not looking up. “Take a team, take vehicles to here, then move quiet, cut through the brush.”

“I’ve got the water,” Ryker added, cracking his knuckles. “Boats, small team, fast hit.”

I exhaled, knowing my place before they said it. “And I’m overwatch.”

Ryker glanced at me, brow raised. “You good with that?”

I wasn’t—wanted to be boots-down, shoulder-to-shoulder with them, blood and dirt in my teeth—but I was a sniper, born for the scope, and they needed my eyes.

“Yeah,” I said, voice flat. “I’ll keep you covered.”

Marcus’s voice cut through the line, sharp. “I’m locked on a plane. Once we have a better idea of what’s down there, I can drop in with a team from above.”

I smirked, despite the weight. “Always late, huh?”

“Always clutch,” Marcus shot back, and I could hear his grin.

We set the plan—midnight launch, two teams, me on the Dane fleet, a small armada rigged for stealth, my rifle ready to paint the night red if it came to that.

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