Page 65 of The Sniper

“Hallie Mae, I swear—I didn’t know about your dad. This is a setup, someone trying to?—”

“Stop,” she cut in, sharp, tears brimming but not falling. “Just stop. You think I’m stupid? You think I can’t see what’s right in front of me?”

I shook my head, desperate now, stepping toward her. “You don’t understand?—”

“I understand enough,” she said, voice low, deadly. “You’re not who I thought you were.”

That hit harder than any bullet—her words slicing clean through, leaving me raw.

I wanted to grab her, shake her, make her see I’dnever hurt her like that, but she stepped back, and the distance between us felt like a canyon I couldn’t cross.

“Let me explain,” I said, softer, pleading now, hating how it sounded.

She didn’t answer—just pointed at the van, where the guy who’d handed her the paper sat, head lolling like he was half-gone already.

“Talk to him,” she said, flat. “I want to hear it.”

I nodded, jaw tight, and gestured to my guys—Carter and Jace, ex-Marines I’d trusted with my life more than once.

“Get him ready,” I said, voice clipped, and turned back to her. “You sure you want to be there for this?”

“I’m sure,” she said, no hesitation, eyes hard like she’d already buried me.

We climbed into the van, her sliding in beside me, close but untouchable, the paper still crumpled in her hand.

The guy—scrawny, twitchy, eyes darting like a cornered animal—sat cuffed in the back, reeking of sweat and something chemical, like he’d been cooking his brain for years.

Looked like Holstein—same strung-out vibe, same half-crazed glaze.

Deep addict, no question.

I leaned in, kept my voice low, steady. “Who gave you the paper?”

He blinked, slow, like my words were underwater, then giggled—high, jagged, like a kid who’d snorted too much sugar.

“They’re watchin’ me, man,” he said, rocking slightly, cuffs clinking. “Always watchin’. Government’s had me on their radar since I was sixteen. Locked me up, y’know? ‘Cause I knew their secrets.”

I glanced at Hallie Mae—she was staring at him, lips pressed thin, like she was trying to decide if he was crazy or just broken.

“What secrets?” I pressed, keeping my tone even, though my patience was fraying fast.

“All of ‘em,” he slurred, eyes darting to the van’s ceiling like it might open up. “Codes, signals, shit they don’t want you knowin’. They put me in the hospital, man, pumped me full of drugs to shut me up.”

I leaned closer, voice dropping colder. “The paper. Who gave it to you?”

He didn’t answer—just kept rocking, muttering about cameras, satellites, voices in his head.

Carter caught my eye, stepped outside, and motioned me to follow.

I slid out, leaving Hallie Mae with Jace, and shut the door behind me.

“What?” I said, voice low, sand crunching under my boots.

Carter kept his voice down, eyes scanning the dunes. “Ran his ID. Name’s Kenny Van Cleese. No government jobs, no military, nothing. Just a rap sheet—petty theft, possession, three overdoses in the last year alone. Probably more before that.”

I nodded, jaw tight, already knowing the type—another junkie pawn, same as Holstein, fed just enough cash and drugs to do someone’s dirty work.

“Worthless,” I muttered, glancing back at the van.

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