Page 59 of Reaper
"Wind is pushing eight knots, coming hard out of the northwest." My voice is a quiet, mechanical hum over the secure comms channel. "Dial down two clicks. Hold center mass."
Beside me in the dirt, the newest sniper recruit for Guardian's Echo Team adjusts the elevation dials on his McMillan TAC-338. He settles heavily into his stock. His breathing drops. His finger gently feathers the trigger.
The suppressed rifle cracks, a sharp, violent sound instantly swallowed by the vast expanse of the desert.
Exactly three seconds later, the sharp, metallic ping of the heavy steel target echoes back across the canyon.
"Impact," I confirm, not pulling my eye away from the glass. "Good shot. Pack it up. We're done for the day."
"Copy that, Reaper." The recruit scrambles up, brushing the red dirt off his tactical pants before efficiently breaking down his heavy rifle.
I don't move immediately. I stay prone in the dirt, the heavy spotting scope pressed cool against my brow.
Six months ago, I was lying on an isolated Wyoming ridge exactly like this one.
I was separated from the rest of humanity by the cold glass of a scope and the brutal, unforgiving weight of my rifle.
I was a ghost. A violently isolated, hollowed-out machine designed to slip across international borders and sever the life from men who thought they were entirely untouchable.
I was a pariah carrying the heavy, bleeding guilt of a murdered innocent man.
Now, I am a Guardian.
Frost's voice no longer haunts the quiet spaces of my mind with cold, unforgiving judgment. My brother brought me back from the dark. He welcomed me back into the bloodline.
The weight of exile that crushed my spine for four bitter years is finally gone. The Ares Global network is nothing but dust andash. The forensic audit Addy filed with the global authorities ripped the syndicate apart from the inside out.
Their massive offshore assets were permanently frozen, their logistical lines severed, and the corrupt brokers who funded the hunting of human beings are either dead in the dirt or rotting away in federal black sites.
The ghosts are finally quiet.
The distinct crunch of boots on the dry, scorched grass pulls my attention away from the canyon.
I don't stiffen. I don't instinctively reach for the heavy, serrated combat knife strapped to my thigh. I know the cadence of those footsteps. I know the confident, utterly fearless rhythm of the woman walking up the steep ridge.
I don't push myself up immediately. I pivot the heavy spotting scope on its bipod, sweeping the glass across the tactical perimeter until she steps into the crosshairs.
Addy.
She walks out of the shadow of the command center. She wears a pair of faded denim jeans and one of my oversized gray t-shirts. Her dark hair isn't a wet, freezing mess anymore. It's pulled back into a messy, comfortable braid, the hot desert wind catching the loose strands.
She doesn't carry a Glock 19 on her hip. She carries two steaming cardboard cups of coffee from the Guardian Grind.
I stay on the glass. The heavy magnification brings her close enough to count the stray hairs escaping her braid.
Six months ago, watching her strip down and wade into a freezing Wyoming creek ignited a visceral, violent urge to abandon my overwatch and drag my hands down her waist. It was the desperate hunger of a starving man.
That raw, intense physical pull hasn't faded for a single second. It is still right there, humming in my blood. But the desperate, agonizing starvation of the assassin is entirely gone.
Now, when I watch her, I don't feel the cold, terrifying detachment of a killer haunting the high ground. I feel the fierce, possessive, undeniable warmth of a man who finally has a home.
She stops at the edge of the ridge, looking down at me lying in the dirt. She flashes a small, knowing smile, entirely aware that I am watching her through the glass.
I push myself up from the earth, dusting the red dirt off my tactical pants.
The bright sun catches the edge of the large, flawless diamond ring sitting heavily on her left hand.
It flashes like an undeniable beacon in the light.
