Page 98 of The Sniper

“Yeah,” I said, looking at Ryker, at the choppers landing now, their blades kicking up dust. “We’re good.”

We rounded up the Department 77 stragglers as the CIA air armada watched. By the time all was said and done, we’d lost three men with another five wounded. Department 77’s final death toll was twenty two, withanother dozen bound and hooded so the Agency could deal with them however they liked.

When the mess was finally settled, and I stood in the middle of the road watching the birds fly home as Marcus regaled my brothers with stories of his exploits, I had one thought and one thought only: Hallie Mae. I needed to see Hallie Mae.

27

HALLIE MAE

Icouldn’t take it.

Not the static.

Not Elias’s silence.

Not the blue-lit screens blinking like heart monitors waiting for someone to flatline.

I stood, fast. The chair scraped back with a screech, but Elias didn’t flinch. He was still typing, eyes scanning a half-dozen monitors, trying to locate the one dot that mattered most.

“I need to go,” I said softly.

He nodded once but didn’t look at me. “If I hear anything?—”

“You’ll come get me,” I whispered.

This time he did glance up. The sympathy in his eyes was enough to crack something inside me. But I didn’t break. Couldn’t.

I turned and walked out.

Back up two flights. Back down the long hall that hummed like it held its breath for every man deployed tonight. Back into Noah’s room.

It smelled like him.

Gun oil. Pine soap. The kind of warmth that lingered in the fabric of things even after someone had gone.

I curled back into his bed and pulled the comforter up to my chin. Closed my eyes.

But rest wouldn’t come.

My mind was a blur of gunfire and static, of Elias muttering under his breath, of Noah’s voice—sharp and cutting—right before it vanished.

He said he’d come back.

I believed him when he said it.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

Was it really possible to lose my daddy and Noah in the same week? What kind of God would be cruel enough to give me love, only to rip it away before I could even hold it?

I must’ve dozed, because when I opened my eyes again, the sky outside the window had started to pale. Just the barest hint of morning. A funeral morning.

My father’s.

The ache in my chest bloomed so suddenly I had to sit up and press a hand there, like I could hold it together with my own fingers. My daddy was gone. And the man I loved might be, too.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood on shaking limbs. My overnight bag was where I left it—tucked in the corner, half-unzipped. I reached for it and pulled out the black dress I’d packed. I hadn’t imagined I’d be wearing it without Noah.

I was in the middle of brushing my hair when a soft knock landed at the door.

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