Chapter 30 - THE BULLET AND THE DEADLINE
Elena sprinted across the rain-slicked roof, sliding behind the low concrete lip of an air-conditioning compressor unit just as another half-inch steel round tore through the sheet metal above her head, showering her back with sparks.
She closed her eyes for two seconds, blocking out the screaming wind, the wail of the alarms, and the distant thudding blades of the approaching CH-53 extraction helicopters.
She focused entirely on the ancient mechanics of marksmanship.
*Body alignment. Bone support. Natural point of aim.*
She rose onto her elbows, planting her upper body firmly onto the wet concrete. She wrapped the canvas sling twice around her left forearm, pulling the scarred walnut stock back tight into the pocket of her shoulder until the wood felt like part of her own collarbone.
Six hundred meters away, through the driving rain, the muzzle flash of the church bell tower flickered like an angry orange firefly.
Elena looked through the rear aperture. The world narrowed to a needle point.
She rotated the windage knob three clicks right to compensate for the gale blowing off the sea. She dialed the elevation drum up six clicks, lifting the front sight post against the silhouette of the stone archway.
The sniper in the tower chambered another round. Elena could see the faint outline of his silhouette through the arch, his massive .50 caliber rifle swinging back toward the approaching sound of the rescue helicopters.
Elena began her respiratory cycle.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Hold.
In the dead space between heartbeats, while the Mediterranean squall paused for a fraction of a second, Elena’s finger contracted on the two-stage trigger.
The hammer fell.
*BANG.*
The M14 bucked hard into her shoulder, spitting a three-foot jet of orange flame into the rain.
Six hundred yards away, the 175-grain steel-jacketed match round crossed the dark plaza, sliced through the stone window opening of the bell tower, and caught the Apex sniper directly in the center of his throat. The man flew backward off his stool, his massive rifle clattering down into the stone abyss below.
"Sniper down!" Torres screamed from the stairwell. "The LZ is clear!"
The massive shape of the CH-53 Super Stallion roared over the roof, its rotor wash beating down the rain as its wheels touched the non-skid pads. Company B rushed the analysts aboard into the safety of the armored cabin.
Elena stood up, lowering the rifle, her chest heaving with exertion. She slung the weapon across her back and moved toward the helicopter’s ramp.
Suddenly, her tactical radio—which had sputtered back to life as the EMP unit was destroyed—erupted with frantic, panicked static.
It wasn't First Sergeant Miller. It wasn't the flight crew.
It was the voice of Colonel Marcus Vance, calling directly from the command center at JSOC, his voice broken and laced with extreme urgency.
"Elena! Elena, do not board that helicopter!" the Colonel’s voice crackled through the static. "The strike group has been compromised! Halloway never worked for Central Command—he took a seven-figure payout from Rourke’s shell company two weeks ago! The task force has just received orders to declare your entire company as unauthorized rogue combatants! If you step foot on that flight deck, they will take the evidence and—"
The transmission was abruptly cut off by a high-pitched electronic screech.
Elena froze on the rooftop ramp.
May you like
She looked toward the open sea. Through the parting storm clouds, the distant running lights of three Navy attack gunboats were slicing through the harbor entrance at fifty knots, their automated autocannon turrets turning deliberately toward the roof of the annex.
And behind her, inside the helicopter cabin, the SEAL liaison team suddenly raised their suppressed carbines—pointing them straight at Elena Vance’s chest.
