Chapter 37

THIRTY-SEVEN

The faint smell of gunpowder clung to the high pines. Hatch stood beside Bishop, her breathing steady, though her pulse hadn’t fully calmed. The adrenaline from the fight still surged through her, making her hyperaware of the quiet around them. The bodies of the four-man kill team were scattered across the forest floor, a reminder of how close they had come to losing.

Bishop wiped the remaining blood from his face, casting a glance at Hatch. “We’re not sticking around when they come looking for their boys,” he muttered, his voice low but carrying an unspoken urgency. He was already calculating their next move.

Hatch didn’t respond right away. Her hand went to the radio clipped to her belt, the one Sheriff Tuck had given her before everything had gone sideways. She was about to press the button when a crackle of static interrupted the silence.

“Shots fired. Multiple reports of automatic gunfire over the ridge.”

Bishop’s eyes flicked toward the radio, his expression hardening, but he remained silent. He shook his head, signaling it wasn’t their concern.

“Not our problem,” Bishop said. “Let’s move.”

But before they could take a step, another transmission came through, this one frantic and raw. Tuck’s voice.

“Shots fired at the station… hostage situation…” His words were punctuated by ragged breathing, tension lacing every syllable. “Maggie… stay calm. I said drop the gun!”

Hatch froze. Her heart slammed in her chest as her eyes shot to Bishop. The desperation in the sheriff’s voice hit her like a physical blow. Maggie was in danger.

“Looks like your second target’s still on someone’s agenda,” Hatch said quietly, her voice tense with urgency.

Bishop’s face darkened, his jaw clenching. “Crystal Springs doesn’t leave loose ends.”

“How far is the station?” she asked, already running through options in her mind.

“Too far to reach on foot in time,” Bishop tapped his gimp leg, scanning the landscape with practiced eyes, looking for any possible advantage. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the ridge line overlooking the station. “But maybe we don’t need to get there.”

Hatch followed his line of sight. She could see the faint outline of the station’s roof, a distant dot through the trees.

Bishop’s voice was calm, measured. “How fast does a bullet travel?”

She blinked, shifting gears as she realized what Bishop was implying. “Depends on the caliber and conditions.”

“At this range, around 2,700 feet per second. I can make the shot from here with the right windage.”

A thousand meters. Hatch’s gut twisted. It was a long shot, but Bishop wasn’t just any sniper. He’d clearly made shots like this before. But the distance, the conditions, the pressure—everything was stacked against them.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the terrain. The ridge offered the perfect vantage point. It was high enough to give them a clear line of sight to the station. But something gnawed at her.

Bishop was already on the move, low and swift through the trees, leading the way to the ridge that overlooked the station. Hatch followed, her body moving automatically, her mind churning. This wasn’t just about getting there. It was about making the shot.

They pushed through the dense forest, the climb steep and grueling. Hatch could hear her own breath, sharp and controlled as she kept pace with Bishop. Every step was a battle against time. They had to get there before it was too late.

When they reached the top of the ridge, Bishop dropped to one knee, pulling the rifle from his rucksack, the same rifle he’d used to take out Sawyer. Hands moving with the fluidity of a trained professional, he assembled the rifle piece by piece. Suppressor, scope, stock—all clicking into place with mechanical precision.

Hatch crouched beside him, her eyes locking on the distant station. Processing the variables—distance, elevation, wind. She knew what needed to be done, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

Bishop dropped to his belly, prone, settling into the familiar position of a sniper. His breathing slowed, the rifle becoming an extension of him. But something was wrong. His hands shook as he tried to steady the weapon, there was a slightly unfocused look to his eyes as he peered through the scope.

Bishop muttered, barely audible. “The toxin… it's still affecting my vision.” His voice was steady, but she could hear the frustration beneath it. He was trying to shake it off, trying to push through the effects of Banyan’s reagent that still clung to his system.

Hatch glanced at him, understanding the implications. Bishop was a master at this, but not today. Not like this.

Bishop’s hands faltered again, his breathing uneven now. Hesitating, he pulled away from the scope, his jaw tight. “I can’t make the shot.”

Hatch nodded and slipped into position, as if the rifle had been hers all along. Bishop moved out of her way, staying low on the ground next to her. Her cheek pressed against the stock, eyes narrowing as she adjusted the scope. The station came into focus, just as Tuck’s voice crackled through the radio again.

“Maggie—stay calm?—”

There was no time to dwell on the stakes, no space for hesitation. The wind shifted—light, maybe two to three miles per hour—but enough to matter. She adjusted her holdover instinctively, compensating for the drift. Her mind ran the calculations in seconds: wind velocity, drop at range, target distance. The Coriolis effect barely registered, but she accounted for it anyway. Bishop watched her, his eyes still sharp despite the physical toll the dermal patch had taken. He didn’t question her ability. In that moment, there was no room for doubt. Only precision.

“You’ve done this before,” he said, his voice low, almost impressed.

Hatch’s finger hovered just above the trigger, her breathing slowing as she steadied herself. “Not my first rodeo.”

Exhaling slowly, feeling the weight of the rifle, the tension in her muscles coiled, ready. Her eyes locked on the target. Mind quiet now. One shot. One chance.

The wind brushed against her skin, and she adjusted once more. The distance didn’t scare her. The shot didn’t scare her. It was just a problem to be solved.

She felt the slight curvature of the trigger against the pad of her index finger. She inhaled, held the breath for a beat and then released it slowly. At the natural respiratory pause, Hatch slowly applied the pressure.

Maggie’s world shrank to a single, terrifying point: the cold, unyielding pressure of the gun pressed against her temple. The hard metal dug into her skin, each tiny shift a brutal reminder of how close she was to death. Reeves' arm wrapped around her, tight and unforgiving, making it hard to breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm so frantic it drowned out everything else—the sounds of the rain, the voices of the deputies, even her own desperate thoughts.

This can't be happening. Please, God, don’t let this be real.

Across the rain-soaked parking lot, Sheriff Tuck stood motionless, his gun raised, eyes locked on Reeves. His deputies were in position, their cars forming a loose perimeter, red and blue lights flashing against the wet pavement. But Reeves kept Maggie close, moving her with him each time an officer tried to flank them. He was in complete control.

"Nobody has to get hurt, Sheriff," Reeves said, his voice too calm. The drizzle softened his words but carried them clearly. "I'm walking out of here with Maggie. Once I’m clear, I’ll let her go. Unharmed."

"He's lying, Sheriff! Don't let him—" The barrel pressed harder into her head, arm tighter around her throat, cutting off her words, her breath.

Tuck’s eyes flicked to hers, fierce with determination. "That won’t happen, Maggie. I promise."

Reeves chuckled, low and rough. "You have no idea who you're up against, Sheriff," he said, his tone casual but cold. "The people I work for will burn this place to the ground without thinking twice. Everyone in it. To get what they want." His grip tightened on her, fingers digging into her arm. "And what they want is her—and whatever’s on that thumb drive."

Maggie’s stomach turned, the weight of those words sinking in. This wasn’t just about her anymore. These people had already taken everything—her father, Sawyer—and now they would take her. Terror spread through her, freezing her limbs, but she forced herself to focus on Tuck, silently begging him to do something.

A deputy’s voice crackled over the radio. "No clean shot, sir."

Reeves shifted impatiently. "I’m getting tired of this dance, Sheriff. Hate for my finger to slip." His finger twitched on the trigger, the pressure on Maggie’s head increasing. She could smell the gun oil, sharp and metallic. "Would be a shame. Can you live with that?"

Tuck didn’t move. His jaw tightened, his knuckles white on the handle of his gun. A single drop of sweat slid down his nose, barely noticeable in the dim light. "Lower your weapon," he commanded, his voice steady, though Maggie could sense the strain in his words.

Reeves smirked, his voice smug. "Smart choice."

Maggie’s heart raced faster, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. Cold sweat ran down her back, mixing with the warm breath of Reeves on her neck. She tried to focus, but her world narrowed to one terrifying truth: Reeves’ finger was too close to the trigger. Every tiny movement sent fear surging through her body. She squeezed her eyes shut, silently praying.

Please, Sheriff … do something.

The moments dragged on, each one heavier than the last. The gun pressed harder against her skin, the cold metal unyielding. The rain dripped steadily, soaking into her clothes, the smell of wet asphalt and gunpowder filling her lungs.

Then, a single gunshot shattered the night.

The sound hit her like a physical force, a burst of noise that drowned out everything. For an instant, everything stopped. Warmth splashed across her face, the pressure against her neck released. Maggie’s eyes opened wide, her mind struggling to understand what had just happened. She blinked, her vision blurring, trying to make sense of the chaos.

The gun was gone. The cold pressure against her head vanished, and Reeves’ grip loosened. His bodyweight slumped against her back, nearly toppling her over before falling away to the side.

Blood. It was everywhere, pooling around Reeves' head, mixing with the rainwater on the pavement. His eyes stared lifelessly at the sky, the back of his skull a ruin of blood and bone.

Maggie’s breath caught in her throat. Her legs trembled, threatening to give way as the shock hit her. She stumbled, her body no longer her own, the world tilting. The blood on her face hot, real.

"Maggie!" Tuck’s voice cut through the haze.

Strong arms caught her before she hit the ground. He pulled her back, away from the body, his grip steady, grounding her when everything else was spinning out of control.

She clung to him, her chest heaving as her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. The adrenaline drained from her, leaving her weak and trembling. The fear, the relief, the shock—it all slammed into her at once, too much to process. Her body shook, tears stinging her eyes and sobs escaping her mouth.

"It’s over," Tuck whispered, his voice firm but gentle, trying to calm her. "It’s over. You’re safe now."

The words felt distant, the weight of the moment still pressing down on her. Her vision blurred again, her body heavy as exhaustion took over. She barely registered Tuck holding her tighter, guiding her away from the grisly scene.

She was safe. But all she could feel was the blood on her face, the warmth slowly cooling as the rain washed it away.