Beckett stood up, his joints popping like gunfire. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and looked toward the horizon. The ghost was gone, but in the jungle, the silence never lasted long.
Beside Beckett, Richard Miller—his father’s old protégé and a man who treated war like a chess match—watched through a spotter scope. Sniper: Ultimate Kill
"Target neutralized," Miller said, finally lowering his binoculars. "One shot. Ultimate kill." Beckett stood up, his joints popping like gunfire
"Wind is shifting, three o'clock," Miller whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "Range is eight hundred meters. He’s in the bell tower, third arch from the left." Ultimate kill
In the tower, the shadow shifted. A muzzle rose. Beckett had a split second—the space between heartbeats. He didn't think about the politics or the cartel money. He thought about the lead. He exhaled, feeling the "natural respiratory pause" his father had taught him a lifetime ago. Crack.
The recoil punched his shoulder. Before the sound could even echo off the surrounding hills, the glass glint in the bell tower vanished.