The radio crackles. "Wolfe, it's Mace. Target just passed the Reeves property line. He's on foot now, left the truck at the trailhead."
"Copy. I have eyes on the approach."
"Deck wants to know if you need backup."
Deck. Our team leader, recently married, recently shot, recently reminded that none of us are invincible. He'd understand what I'm feeling right now. The cold clarity ofpurpose. The absolute certainty that I will end anyone who threatens what's mine.
"Negative. One target, one operative. Keep the perimeter secure in case he doubles back."
"Understood. Be careful."
I don't respond. Careful isn't what I'm feeling.
The minutes stretch. I regulate my breathing, slow my heartbeat, let my body settle into the patient stillness that kept me alive through dozens of missions. A sniper's greatest weapon isn't the rifle. It's the ability to wait. To watch. To become part of the landscape until the moment arrives.
Movement. East side, maybe a hundred fifty yards out.
I adjust my scope. A figure emerges from the tree line, struggling through knee-deep snow. Dark hair, expensive jacket, the kind of boots that cost five hundred dollars and aren't worth shit in actual winter conditions. He's heading straight for my cabin, his path deliberate despite the difficulty of the terrain.
Derek Whitmore.
I study him through the scope. He's younger than I expected, maybe late twenties. Handsome in a polished, manufactured way. The kind of face that photographs well and hides cruelty behind a charming smile. He's breathing hard from the exertion of hiking through snow, but there's a manic energy in his movements. A man on a mission.
He's also armed. I clock the bulge under his jacket, right side. Probably a handgun. Amateur carry position, easy to spot, hard to draw quickly. He's not trained for this.
But amateurs are dangerous in their own way. Unpredictable. Desperate.
I key my radio. "Visual confirmed. Target is armed, approaching from the east. One hundred yards and closing."
"Do you have a shot?" Mace's voice is calm.
I do. Center mass, easy as breathing. I could drop him right now and Sadie would never have to see his face again.
But that's not the plan. Guardian Peak doesn't execute people, no matter how much they deserve it. We neutralize threats, collect evidence, let the legal system handle the rest. Derek Whitmore has money and lawyers, but he also has a pattern. Three previous victims who might be willing to testify if they knew he was finally facing real consequences.
Killing him would be satisfying. Destroying him legally would be better.
"Holding position. Let him come to me."
"Copy that."
Whitmore reaches the clearing around my cabin. He stops, scanning the area, his hand moving toward his jacket. Looking for threats. Finding none, because he doesn't know how to look.
I could take him now. Step out of concealment, use my training to disarm and subdue him before he even registers I'm there. Clean, efficient, over in seconds.
But he's not here for me. He's here for Sadie.
And I want him to know exactly who's standing between them.
I rise from the blind and walk into the open.
"Derek Whitmore."
He spins toward my voice, hand fumbling under his jacket. I let him see my rifle, held low but ready. Let him understand what he's dealing with.
"Who the fuck are you?" His voice is higher than expected. Strained.
"The man who's going to give you one chance to walk away."
