Page 92 of The Sniper

“There,” he muttered, highlighting one shape on the map. “That’s Ryker. They’ve already breached the first house. But …”

“But what?” I asked, voice tight.

He zoomed out. “Too many red dots.”

I squinted. “Red means …”

“Enemies. Department 77. Or whoever the hell they hired to die for them.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke—just kept adjusting the feeds, muttering under hisbreath. “Something’s wrong. That many reinforcements? They knew we were coming.”

My hands curled around the back of the chair, gripping hard. “You think it’s a trap?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “they’ve been waiting for this. Ryker’s pinned. Atlas is on the move. But this isn’t a clean sweep anymore—it’s survival.”

The next voice on the comms made me go still.

Noah.

“RPG spotted. Atlas, shift your angle. They’re coming up behind you, east side.”

His voice was calm. Sharp. I could hear the calculation in it, the split-second decisions. But I could also hear the strain.

“He’s got eyes on the whole team,” Elias murmured. “He’s in overwatch. It means he’s not in the thick of it, but close enough to keep them all alive.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It’salldangerous.” He pulled up another window, typing fast. “But Noah’s got a gift. He’ll pick them off one by one as best he can.”

Another voice cut in—not Noah. Atlas, maybe?

“Thirty seconds out. Coming in from the road.”

It sounded like they were talking about what television show to watch next. The calm. The steadiness.

Gunfire rattled in the background. Not fake. Not like the movies. I could feel it—those concussive thuds, the way someone’s breath hitched just slightly between rounds.

I dropped into the chair beside Elias, one hand covering my mouth.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I just … I need to hear him.”

Elias didn’t say anything—just reached over, lowered the volume a notch, but didn’t turn it off.

“I can’t imagine this,” I said after a moment, staring at the infrared images, the movement of tiny, glowing blips like some tragic video game. “How do you do it? Sit here and listen, not knowing if they’ll all make it back?”

His hands paused. Then he glanced at me. “You don’t really learn how. You just get used to the weight of it.”

I turned to him, the air thick. “I don’t want to get used to it.”

“I know.” He said it gently, without judgment. “You’re not supposed to. That’s how you know you still feel.”

A long moment passed. The comms erupted again—another burst of gunfire, Ryker’s voice gritted and sharp. Elias typed something rapid-fire, then flicked to a second monitor. A white thermal outline of bodies clustered behind a barricade—one, two, three ... maybe four heat signatures moving erratically.

“Come on, come on,” Elias muttered. “Where the hell’s Marcus?—”

As if on cue, a new voice broke in, calm and cool:

“Touchdown in thirty. Coming in hot.”

“Marcus,” Elias said, lips twitching. “So fucking dramatic.”

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