Page 66 of The Sniper

Carter shrugged. “Might know something, but good luck getting it out clean.”

I went back inside, found Hallie Mae staring at Van Cleese, her face pale, eyes flicking between him and the paper like she could piece it together herself.

“He’s not making sense,” she said, voice flat, but there was a shake in it, a crack I hated hearing.

“He’s high,” I said, trying to keep it gentle. “Probably doesn’t even know what day it is.”

She shook her head, fast, like she was shaking off a thought. “Let him go.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Let him go,” she said, firmer now, eyes meeting mine, hard and unyielding. “He’s not right, Noah. He needs help, not … whatever this is.”

“Hallie Mae, he might know something,” I said, keeping my voice low, trying not to sound like the asshole I felt like. “He’s tied to this?—”

“He’s half-dead already,” she cut in, sharp. “Look at him. You think he’s hiding some big secret? He’s just a mess. Let him go.”

I wanted to argue—knew it was stupid, knew he was a lead, even a shaky one—but her voice, that steel in it, stopped me cold.

“Fine,” I said, nodding to Jace. “Cut him loose.”

Jace raised a brow but didn’t argue—unlocked the cuffs, hauled Van Cleese up, and pushed him toward the door.

I turned to Hallie Mae, kept my voice low. “I’ll have my guys tail him. He knows something, even if he doesn’t know he knows it.”

She didn’t answer—just watched as Van Cleese stumbled out, blinking into the sunlight like he’d forgotten it existed.

He made it five steps—sand kicking up under his sneakers—when his head exploded.

A wet crack, red mist spraying, and his body dropped, limp and final, brains and blood seeping into the pavement.

The rifle’s report echoed a split second later, sharp and distant, bouncing off the water.

I moved—instinct, no thought—grabbed Hallie Mae, yanked her down behind the van, my body shielding hers, heart slamming as I waited for the next shot.

Carter and Jace hit the ground, too, guns out, shouting into comms for backup, their voices tight, urgent.

“Shooter, northwest, maybe five hundred yards?—”

“Get backup here, now!”

I pressed Hallie Mae against the van’s side, her breath fast and shallow, her hands clutching my arm like I was the only thing keeping her here.

“Stay down,” I growled, scanning the dunes, the boardwalk, the rooftops—anywhere a sniper could hide.

But no shots came.

No crack. No barrage.

Just silence, heavy and wrong, the ocean rolling in like it hadn’t just watched a man die.

The message was clear—delivered, done.

I eased up, still crouched, and looked at her—really looked.

Her face was pale, eyes wide, locked on the body sprawled in the sand, blood pooling dark and thick, seeping into the dunes like an offering.

“Hallie Mae,” I said, voice low, trying to pull her back.

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