Page 82 of Cold Target

It would stop return fire if things went wrong.

He set up carefully. The rifle's bipod deployed with a quiet click that sounded too loud in his ears but didn't carry. He adjusted it, getting the height right, compensating for the downward angle.

He breathed through it. Shallow breaths. Controlled.

The scope was good. Leupold, possibly. High-end glass with excellent light transmission. He brought it to his eye and the chamber jumped into focus, the men suddenly close enough to touch.

The two men at the workbench were still talking. One was gesturing, pointing at something on the bench. The other was nodding, saying something Joe couldn't hear over the ventilation hum.

The third man had stopped walking. He was looking at something on the ground. A clipboard, maybe. His head was down, his attention focused.

Joe settled the crosshairs on the man drinking coffee.

Center mass would be easier. Bigger target. More margin for error. But center mass wasn't quiet. Center mass meant body armor, maybe. Meant the man might make noise. Might have time to shout. Might alert the others before he went down.

Headshot.

He adjusted. The crosshairs drifted up, smooth and steady. Found the temple. The man's head was still. The angle was good. Seventy yards, maybe. Slight downward trajectory. The suppressor would affect the ballistics, but not much at this range.

Joe's breathing slowed. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. His heart rate dropped. The pain in his ribs faded to background noise. Nothing mattered except the shot.

His finger found the trigger. The pressure was familiar. Smooth and predictable. Maybe four pounds. He took up the slack, felt the break point.

He squeezed.

The rifle kicked against his shoulder. The suppressor turned the shot into a flat, dull crack instead of a boom. It was loud enough to hear but wouldn’t carry far. Not loud enough to sound like a gunshot to someone who wasn't expecting one.

The man with the coffee dropped.

The two men at the workbench looked up. Confused. Not alarmed yet. They'd heard something but didn't understand it. One said something to the other.

Joe was already on the second target.

The man on the left. The one who'd been gesturing. He was turning now, looking toward the fallen man, starting to understand that something was wrong.

Crosshairs on the forehead. The man's face filled the scope. Joe could see his expression changing. Confusion becoming concern.

Squeeze.

The second man went down. His knees buckled and he collapsed against the workbench, then slid to the floor. Tools clattered. Something metal hit the stone with a ringing sound that echoed in the chamber.

The third man—the one who'd been nodding—understood now. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened. His hand moved toward his rifle, reaching for the sling.

Joe fired.

The third shot took him in the face. He spun and fell, his body hitting the ground hard enough that Joe heard the impact even from seventy yards away.

The fourth man—the one with the clipboard—was running.

Joe tracked him through the scope but the man was moving fast, heading for the far tunnel. He disappeared into the darkness, still shouting, his voice fading as he ran deeper into the mine.

More voices now. Deeper in the mine. Men responding to the shout. Footsteps. The sound of equipment being grabbed. Weapons being readied.

Joe pulled back from the timber, grabbed the rifle, and moved.

The element of surprise was gone.

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