Page 14 of Axel Martin

Rush Turner:Movement. Half mile out. He’s circling.

I adjusted my scope. “Eyes on?”

Frasier:Negative. He’s good. But he’s close.

Lark sat on the porch, sipping from a thermos like it was just another day in the woods.

My grip tightened on the rifle.

Come on, bastard. Show yourself.

12

Lark

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the clearing. I stayed still on the porch, thermos in hand, pretending I wasn’t waiting for a killer.

My heart was steady. Focused.

Axel’s short training course had stuck.

Stay loose. Stay ready. Let the predator think you’re prey.

A twig snapped.

Then another.

He was here.

I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Then a voice slipped from the shadows, low and mocking. “Didn’t think you’d make it this easy.”

I kept my expression even. “Figured you wanted something better than a drone shot.”

A figure stepped out—tall, lean, hood pulled low.

And the moment I saw his face, my stomach dropped.

Not just a fan. Not a stranger.

There was something in his eyes—dead and unblinking.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

He smiled, and it made my skin crawl. “Not yet. Buthedoes.”

He?

Axel.

He moved closer, stepping onto the porch, and I subtly shifted my foot—pressing my toe into the hidden trigger in my boot.

Signal sent.

Then he spoke again.

“Martin left me. Iraq. March 2019.”

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