Page 13 of Claimed By the Psychos

Jackal disappears into the shadows like he was never there. The man has a gift for becoming invisible when he wants to.A minute later, his voice comes through the comm, casual as discussing the weather.

"Three down. Continuing sweep."

We move through the warehouse systematically, clearing each section. The guards are amateurs, probably local muscle hired cheap. They die quick and quiet, never knowing what hit them. Professional work, no suffering.

The holding area is in the center of the warehouse, surrounded by shipping containers that block the view from outside. Smart positioning, if you're a monster. We approach from three directions, converging on the makeshift prison.

And the cages at the center of the vast, vaulted room are all…

Empty?

That's when everything goes to hell.

The shot comes from above, somewhere in the rafters. Bane's tactical vest sparks as the bullet hits, and he goes down hard. Training kicks in before conscious thought, and I'm moving toward him while scanning for the shooter.

"Sniper in the rafters," I call out, dropping beside Bane. My hands find the impact point, checking for penetration. The vest held, but he's going to have one hell of a bruise. "You're hit but intact."

"I can see that," Bane growls, rolling behind cover. "Where the fuck did he come from?"

Another shot rings out, this one aimed at Jackal. The bullet sparks off a shipping container inches from his head. He laughs, actually laughs, like someone just told him a particularly good joke.

"Oh, this is interesting," the psychopath says, drawing his favorite knife. "Someone's trying to spoil our party."

I scan the rafters through my scope, looking for muzzle flash or movement. There. Northwest corner, maybe forty feet up. Male figure in dark clothing, rifle with a scope. Professionalsetup, but his positioning is sloppy. He's silhouetted against a broken window.

"I have eyes on the shooter," I report, lining up my shot. "Taking the shot."

The rifle kicks against my shoulder, and the figure in the rafters jerks backward. Hit, but not down. He's wearing body armor too. Smart.

"Fuck," the shooter calls out, his voice echoing through the warehouse. American accent, no regional markers. Professional training in his tone. "Should have stayed home, boys."

He fires again, this time at me. The bullet whines past my ear close enough to feel the wind. I duck behind a concrete pillar and reassess. This isn't some hired muscle. This is a professional, someone with training and equipment.

"Who the hell is this guy?" Bane asks, checking his rifle.

"No idea," I reply, watching for movement. "But he knows what he's doing."

Jackal has disappeared again, probably working his way up to the rafters. The man climbs like a spider, and he's got a personal grudge against anyone who tries to kill his teammates. I doubt it's attachment so much as professional pride. Either way, this won't end well for our mystery shooter.

"Archer, we need extraction ready," Bane says into his comm. "We've got a professional shooter up here, no vics, and this whole thing stinks like a setup."

"Copy that," Archer's voice comes back. "Bird's hot and ready."

The warehouse falls silent except for the distant sound of traffic. I keep my rifle trained on the rafters, waiting for movement. The victims may still be down here somewhere, if they exist at all. We need to finish this fast.

A scream echoes from above, high and sharp. Jackal's found his target.

"Tango down," Jackal's voice comes through the comm, cheerful as always. "But you're going to want to see this, Doctor."

I make my way up the maintenance ladder to the rafters, keeping my rifle ready. Jackal stands over the body of our shooter, and something about the scene makes my skin crawl. The man is young, maybe mid-twenties, with short brown hair and unremarkable features. He could be anyone, which is probably the point.

"Professional gear," Jackal says, nudging the rifle with his boot. "Custom modifications, expensive scope. This wasn't some random hire."

I kneel beside the body, checking for identification. Nothing. No wallet, no tags, no distinguishing marks. Even his clothes are generic, the kind you can buy anywhere. But there's something about his hands that catches my attention.

"Look at this," I say, lifting the man's right hand. "Calluses on the trigger finger, but also on the palm. He's trained in multiple weapons systems. And see this scar on his wrist? Surgical. Someone removed something."

"Tracking chip?" Bane asks, joining us.