Page 103 of The Sniper

They laid flowers on the casket, murmured condolences, and I caught glimpses of her mom, Leanne, pale but composed, nodding through tears as people hugged her.

It was sweet, in its way—the community, the love, the way they rallied around Hallie Mae and her mom, a reminder of what her dad had built.

But I didn’t dwell on it.

Couldn’t.

My mind was already drifting—to the men we’d lost, to the blood on Kiawah Island, to the war that wasn’t over, even if the guns had gone quiet for now.

Dom’s face flashed—half his head gone, eyes empty, one of ours cut down in 77’s trap.

We’d have to bury two others, good men, brothers in arms, their funerals in a few days.

The weight of it—of Jamie Calhoun, of Dom, of all the lives 77 had torn apart—sat heavy on my shoulders, an obligation I couldn’t shake.

My life had been a seesaw—chaos and death, a pendulum swinging between the thrill of the fight and the cold finality of a body hitting the ground.

I’d lived for it, craved it, the battlefield a home where I knew every rule, every move.

But now, with Hallie Mae’s hand in mine, her warmth seeping through my skin, I felt something new—a pull toward quiet, toward peace, toward a life that didn’t smell like cordite and blood.

I looked at her, her profile sharp against the gray sky, and realized I wanted it—normalcy, a routine, the kind of days where the loudest thing was her laugh, not a gunshot.

The man who’d thrived on war, who’d built his name on bodies and bullets, was fading, slipping into the recesses of my mind like an old comrade I didn’t need anymore.

This was a new chapter, a chance to claw back something I hadn’t felt since I was a kid—love, laughter,the endless ocean of possibility that used to stretch out on Sullivan’s Island, before Mom left, before Dad’s shadow swallowed us whole.

I squeezed her hand, and she looked up, her blue eyes soft but steady, like she knew what I was thinking.

“Love you,” I mouthed, no sound, just truth.

Her lips curved, faint but real. “Love you, too.”

The service ended, the crowd thinning as people drifted to the fellowship hall for casseroles and quiet talk.

Hallie Mae stayed by her mom, helping with the receiving line, and I gave her space, stepping out to the churchyard, the air cool with the promise of rain.

I leaned against a tree, its roots cracking the earth, and let my mind wander—to her, to us, to the life I wanted to build.

But there were details to wrap up first, loose ends that wouldn’t let me rest easy.

Dominion and the CIA had been in talks all morning, the Agency’s voice cold and clipped over secure lines.

Officially, Department 77 never existed—a ghost, a myth, a name scrubbed from every record.

It was a black eye for the CIA, a well-connected outfit they’d let run without a leash, and they were pissed, humiliated, ready to burn it all down to save face.

Unofficially, the powers that be wanted blood—every 77 operative, every contact, every whisper of their network rooted out, brought in for questioning, or shot on sight.

And they wanted us—Dominion—to do the dirty work.

Carte blanche, they’d said, extreme prejudice, a blank check to hunt, kill, and bury 77’s remains.

I liked the sound of it—Ryker’s grin had been sharp when we’d heard, Atlas nodding slow, Marcus already itching to move.

Charleston was quiet for now, the Agency’s cordon holding, 77’s local assets shattered after Thumb Point.

That gave me time—time to settle with Hallie Mae, to build something real, to lean into this wealthy life I’d spent years wishing away.

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