Page 110

Jake silencedhis radio and switched over to his earpiece, gaze already searching through his scope. He spotted the target instantly. Adult male, black sweatshirt, hood up, silver scythe glistening in the moonlight. “Tango sighted. Awaiting command,” Jake relayed.

“Hold fire,” Hartwell replied.

“Is it him?” Dana whispered. “Is it Max?”

“Can’t tell,” Jake whispered back, “But he’s approaching a sea of officers and agents with a weapon. If he doesn’t stop, this doesn’t end well.”

“Jake, we have to take him alive, or we’ll never know the truth!”

“That’s the goal,” he said, not taking his eyes off the target.

He could hear Hartwell on the bullhorn speaking to the approaching assailant. “This is the police. Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head.”

The hooded figure did no such thing. He kept moving, one foot after the other, never breaking stride. He moved as if in a trance, slow and disjointed. Images from too many zombie movies flipped through Jake’s mind. He locked them away, focusing on the target in his sights. His shadow elongating in the moonlight cut an eerie picture.

“Grab my range finder,” Jake instructed. “See if you can get a better look.”

Dana moved to the space next to him in the window, range finder in her hands. Out of reflex he pushed her head down. This wasn’t a warzone, but he still felt more comfortable with her head out of the line of any stray bullets should this thing go south, which it very well might.

Jake could feel the tension crackling in the air. It always felt this way. The calm before the storm. His instincts could usually tell him which way things would fall. Right now, his gut told him catastrophe was coming.

“I can’t see his face,” Dana said. “The hood’s in the way.”

Hartwell’s orders rang out again, but they fell on deaf ears. The hooded figure just kept approaching. He was eighty yards from the house now.

A stiff breeze picked up, the old lace curtains billowing above Jake. For a second the hooded figure paused. He turned, looking up, in Jake’s direction. The wind blew again, and the hood slipped back just far enough that the moonlight illuminated the face beneath it.

“It’s Max,” Jake confirmed into his mic. “I repeat, Tango identified. Max Durnin.”

“Hold fire,” Hartwell barked over the mic, before continuing his negotiations on the bull horn. “We have you surrounded. Put down your weapon and surrender.”

The wind howled as if it too was afraid of what walked in its midst. Jake took the range finder from Dana. He needed to readjust his shot. Distance, temperature, wind speed, velocity; he had it all lined up. Through the magnified lens he got a closer look at Max. His face was pale in the moonlight, which only made the bloody slit at his throat bolder. Jake’s gaze moved to the scythe. He could see evidence of blood on the blade. Had this kid tried to slit his own throat? It would explain the slow, staggering gait. Whatever was going on, they needed to stop Max before he got any closer.

“I have a clean shot,” Jake said into his com.

“Hold fire,” Hartwell ordered.

Max was a hundred yards from the farmhouse and his lumbering gait showed no signs of stopping. Jake didn’t want Dana here to witness this. Or Claire. Neither of them needed the burden of witnessing another death. “Dana, go downstairs and find Claire. She doesn’t need to see this.”

Dana hesitated. “Richter told me to stay with you.”

“And I’m telling you to go downstairs. I don’t know all these players. If this thing goes wrong, I don’t know who’s trigger happy. I’m not taking any chances that you two get caught in the crossfire. Do you have your gun?”

She nodded.

“Get Claire, find a bathroom, lock the door. And if you need to, defend yourself.”

He watched her determination outweigh her fear. She nodded then disappeared down the stairs.

With his distractions eliminated, Jake adjusted his sight one last time. A sniper’s job was to follow orders, not make the call. It was the thing he hated most about his time in the Army. But he wasn’t in the Army anymore. This time fate was his to control.

Jake was trained to take the kill shot, severing the brainstem from the spinal cord. But that wasn’t his goal tonight. He adjusted his sight, making sure if he took the shot, it would eliminate the threat without eliminating life.

Max had no chance of escape. The farmhouse was surrounded by cops and federal agents. The real risk in this situation was itchy trigger fingers and friendly fire.

Seventy yards.

Sixty.

“I have the shot,” Jake repeated.

“Hold fire.”

Fifty yards.

“Any closer and I lose long range,” Jake said.

“Hold—”

A shot rang out, stealing the rest of Hartwell’s words. Then two, then three.

Jake watched it all play out in slow motion.

Someone’s nervous trigger finger unleashed a staccato of gunfire. That was all it took. Max lurched forward when the first bullet struck him in the shoulder. The next two were in the chest. After that Jake lost track as the sound of gunfire ripped through the night air. All he could do from his perch was watch Max’s body collapse to the ground.