Chapter 9

NINE

Twelve hours. He had been in position for twelve long hours, his body pressed into the cold, damp ground. Patience was a virtue in his line of work, one honed through years of grueling missions and endless waits. Each shift in his muscles was deliberate, every breath measured. Inhaling slowly, he could still smell the faint remnants of last night's rain, mingling with the earthy scent of moss and pine needles. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, despite the chill—a reminder of the tension coiled within him.

The wind whispered over the rocky outcropping, its cold fingers tugging at his camouflaged ghillie suit. He lay flat against the jagged rock, his body melded with the terrain, a still shadow amidst the wild backdrop of the White Mountains. The vantage point he had chosen was perfect—a sniper's paradise. From this elevated position, he had a clear, unobstructed line of sight to the side entrance of the hotel below, the same exit he had slipped through the previous night.

Reaching into the pocket of his vest, his fingers brushed over the comforting bag of fireball candies—his only vice. He unwrapped one and tucked it between his teeth, savoring the burn as the cinnamon hit his tongue. It kept him sharp, grounded. The familiar taste transported him, if only for a moment, to a dusty Afghan mountaintop where the habit had begun. The memory flickered and faded, replaced by the cold reality of the mission ahead.

The rifle—a custom bolt-action, chambered for .338 Lapua Magnum—lay nestled beside him, dialed in perfectly. He had spent hours adjusting the scope, compensating for the wind, humidity, and altitude. The bipod was locked into place, the barrel a steady extension of himself, aimed directly at the hotel’s side entrance. Precision was his language, and in this language, there were no second chances.

His setup was meticulous, every piece of gear camouflaged to blend seamlessly with the season’s foliage. A small rodent scurried past, inches from his face, oblivious to his presence. He wasn’t there. Not to them.

Through the scope, he tracked the hotel with surgical precision. The crosshairs hovered over the side door—the one Senator William Masterson would use after the town hall meeting. The senator’s security team had swept the area, but they hadn’t found him. They wouldn’t. This was his domain. He had been left for dead once and survived—crossing nearly a hundred miles of enemy territory with nothing but a broken radio and a knife. Waiting here for the perfect shot was child’s play.

His thoughts drifted to the woman from the lobby. The scar on her arm. Her posture. She had the look of someone who had been there—someone who had danced close to death and survived. An operator. But she wasn’t his target.

Masterson had sold out other towns like Pinewood Falls, trading their lifeblood for corporate favors. This wasn’t just a hit—it was justice. Still, in the back of his mind, a whisper asked: is this justice, or vengeance? He shoved the doubt aside.

The distant chants of protesters reached his ears. Sweeping his scope over them briefly, He caught the signs they held aloft. "Our Water, Our Rights," one read. His gaze lingered for just a moment longer than necessary. His focus muted the noise. They were irrelevant to his mission.

Then, movement. The convoy.

Three black SUVs snaked up the winding road toward the hotel, their polished exteriors glinting in the afternoon sun. The protestors surged, but law enforcement held them at bay as the vehicles came to a stop. Security swarmed, and the tension in the air thickened.

His finger rested lightly on the trigger. The world beyond his scope didn’t matter. The only thing was the target and the crosshairs oscillating over his chest.

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