Page 125 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

This isn't just a sniper's nest—it's a kill box.

And Granger knows exactly how to use it.

"Knox, Asa—stay out of sight." I keep my voice low, though we're well outside visual range. "Team Fish, same protocol. Radio silence unless emergency. Let him think I'm alone."

"Copy that," Caleb's voice comes back, uncharacteristically serious. "Going dark."

The comms fall silent. I breathe in deep, tasting pine and gunmetal on my tongue. The cold bites through my tactical gear, but I barely notice. My world has narrowed to a single point of focus:

Get to her.

I move out, each step placed with deliberate care. Thanks to Asa's drone reconnaissance, I have a mental map of every trap Granger's laid. The bastard's thorough—I'll give him that. But thoroughness creates patterns, and patterns can be predicted.

First camera, twelve o'clock.

I slide the rifle from my shoulder, sight down the barrel. The shot cracks through the stillness—precise, controlled. The camera explodes in a shower of sparks and frosted glass.

Moving again. Never still. Never predictable.

Second camera, northwest face.

Another shot. Another spray of components.

The tower grows larger with each step, industrial and unforgiving. My mind catalogs entry points, structural weaknesses, potential choke points. Old habits from darker days.

At one mile out, the first sniper round kicks up snow three inches from my left boot.

I don't flinch. Don't dive for cover.

Just keep moving.

Because that wasn't meant to hit me. That was Granger saying hello.

I see you,that shot whispers.Do you see me?

The next round comes closer—deliberately closer. Testing my nerve. Seeing if I'll break the pattern.

I don't.

Instead, I push forward faster. More aggressive. Let him think the pressure's getting to me. Let him think I'm getting sloppy.

Keep watching the windows, Granger. Keep thinking you know what I'll do.

The tower base is thirty yards ahead when my comm unit crackles again. Not team frequency.

Echo-13 band.

"You're alone," Granger's words seep through the static like venom through a wound. "I knew you'd choose her over your men. Just like last time."

I say nothing. Let him fill the silence.

"Still armed, I see." A pause heavy with threat. "Drop everything. Or the next red you see won't be dawn."

My jaw locks. But my hands are already moving, stripping off my tactical vest. Weapons clatter to the snow one by one—Glock 19, combat knife, backup piece, flash bangs. I arrange them deliberately, making a show of it.

See? I'm playing by your rules.

But what Granger doesn't see—what he's too focused on me to notice—is how the falling snow is already covering my tracks. How the shadows are deepening as clouds roll in.