Chapter 5 - The Pause
Hayes tried to stop her because he thought she was panicking.
“Cole, get back!”
Avery did not have enough breath to explain that panic moved upward, loud and wild. She was moving low, timed to the ridge.
Burst.
Shift.
Pause.
She crossed the first ten yards on her elbows and knees, dirt tearing at her sleeves. Dust snapped beside her boot. Someone behind her cursed. She reached the shallow fold and dropped into it just as rounds stitched the stone where her head had been.
Burst.
Shift.
Pause.
The rifle was still too far.
Marcus was closer to Sullivan now, but the gunner had noticed him. Dust kicked near his shoulder. He flattened behind broken rock, one hand stretched toward Sullivan but not close enough.
“I need cover!” Marcus shouted again.
Avery pushed up and ran the final stretch bent almost double. It was not graceful. It was not cinematic. It was ugly, fast, terrified movement held together by counting.
She hit the dirt beside the rifle, grabbed it, and rolled hard behind the sandbag line.
The weapon was heavier than she expected because Sullivan had built it for himself, not her. Her shoulder found the stock anyway. Her hand worked the bolt. Her cheek settled. Her breath narrowed.
Hayes slid in beside her, furious. “What the hell are you doing?”
Avery did not answer.
She adjusted the scope.
The valley sharpened.
Far ridge. Heat shimmer. Muzzle flash. Rock edge. Wind crossing right, then settling.
Her world became small enough to survive.
“Wind died on the left,” she said.
May you like
Hayes stopped breathing.
Because she sounded exactly like a sniper.
