Night Of The Hunter

Mission.

Now

The desert heat clung to my skin like a second layer, sweat trailing down the back of my neck beneath the collar of my tactical gear. I crouched low behind a ridge, stationing the sniper rifle atop a sun-baked boulder. Flexing my fingers inside my leather fingerless gloves, I cracked my knuckles one by one.

"Target in sight. E.T.A., five minutes," came the voice through my earpiece.

"Roger that," I replied under my breath.

I settled in, pressing into the ground, adjusting the scope and fine-tuning the elevation. The familiar weight of the rifle against my shoulder was almost comforting. Almost. It reminded me of childhood—of long weekends spent in the woods with my father before I ever knew what 'normal' meant.

He wasn't the type to coddle. Former Marine, all discipline and grit. I still remembered the cold sting of early morning dew on my elbows as he had me lie belly-down on gravel, teaching me breath control and trigger discipline before I was old enough to legally drive. My fingers had been too small for a proper grip, but I made it work. I had to. Even without my enhancements back then, I was a damn good shot. But good wasn't good enough for my father. Not until I could split a bottle cap from three hundred yards with wind pushing crossways.

"Do it again," he'd grumble if I missed even slightly. "Do it until your heartbeat doesn't matter."

I had. And now, muscle memory carried me like a second instinct. If I missed today, it wouldn't be the rifle's fault. Or the wind's. Or my breathing.

It'd be mine. And I didn't miss.

"I still can't believe we're being used as fucking backup," came a grumble in my ear.

I smirked. Corporal Davis. Big talk, bigger ego.

"We're Marines. This is our op. And they send in some rando chick as backup? No explanation?"

I arched a brow, lips curling into a smile. He clearly didn't realize I was still on comms.

"Not that hard," he kept muttering. "How hard can it be to take out one target?"

I couldn't help myself. "You do know I can hear you right, David?"

Laughter erupted over the line, the kind that echoed like a middle school locker room.

"It's Davis," he corrected sharply, voice edged with irritation but laced with that try-hard swagger.

"My bad, Corporal. Where's the package?" I asked, letting my tone drip with mock politeness.

"Between my legs, sweetheart."

A chorus of groans and immature snickers filled my headset. I rolled my eyes so hard it almost gave me a headache. Marines. Absolute children when left unsupervised for more than five minutes.

"Ah, no wonder I couldn't find it," I shot back dryly. "Guess I wasn't looking under the microscope."

More laughter—louder this time, as a few of them let out howling "oooohs" like it was a high school roast battle.

"Two minutes, Callahan. Lock and load," Davis snapped, his bravado cracking just slightly beneath the bruised ego.

I breathed in slow, eyes narrowing as the dusty beige jeep rolled toward the checkpoint. Three passengers—two up front, one in the back. My target sat rear passenger side, just like the intel had said. I slid my finger near the trigger, breath steady, muscles coiled, every nerve in my body aligning into focus.

The jeep slowed, kicking up a low swirl of dust behind its tires.

"Something's off," I whispered.

One of the men stepped out with a rifle in hand, his movements tense, scanning the road in deliberate arcs. His boots disturbed the gravel cautiously. He wasn't panicked, but he wasn't casual either. Like he knew this stretch of dirt had more eyes on it than the sky did stars.