Page 72 of Killaney Blood

The others freeze for a split second, confusion before understanding, but I don't give them much time.

I'm already moving my aim when the remaining men scramble like insects, shouting, pointing, ducking behind furniture.

They're too slow, however.

I find my second target, Amar's right hand. The one who probably delivered the orders to hunt Lyra down. His lips purse as he realizes what's happening.

I squeeze the trigger again.

The bullet punches through his throat, red liquid pours from the wound as he drops to his knees, hands clutching uselessly at his neck.

"Four left," I say under my breath, tracking the movement inside.

One dives and flips a table for cover. I fire three times; my bullets have no problem piercing the wood. The man falls, and I see his lifeless face sticking out.

I find my next targets, two actually.

They both have a daring sense of bravado and are making a run for the door. I let them make some ground. Just for a second. Just long enough for them to think they might make it out. Just enough for hope to taste real.

Then I end it.

Clean shot to the back of the skull.

He crumples against the door instantly.

The other tries to move him to open it; he feels my bullet hit his side, then chest. He falls over his comrade, both dead.

My scope scans the room, saving him for last. Amar.

He's made it to a hallway, out of my line of sight.

"West side, boss. There's a fire escape. He's going for it," Shane says.

"Got him," I say.

I rise to my feet, muscles stiff from the cold and stillness. The rifle is warm in my hands as I move to the edge of the rooftop for a better angle.

There. Movement on the metal stairs. Amar, gun in hand, looking over his shoulder as he takes the steps two at a time.

He's looking around frantically, not knowing where the bullets are coming from.

He thinks he's going to escape. That he's going to slip away and rebuild again. Come back for what he thinks is his.

For who he thinks is his.

Not tonight, motherfucker.

I raise my rifle and take aim. His large frame fills my scope.

Then I squeeze the trigger one final time.

The bullet catches him between the shoulder blades. His body jerks forward, momentum carrying him over the railing. He falls, arms windmilling, until he hits the pavement with a sound I can't hear but can imagine perfectly.

I lower the rifle, scanning the scene through the scope one last time.

A few others run out of the building.

I point, "Take them out."