The screen glitches a few times before a sound comes through.
“Testing,” a voice crackles through the speakers. “Can you hear us?”
“We can,” Clinton calls back cheerfully. “And now we see you.”
The feed stabilizes, and a man in full camouflage stares into the camera mounted on someone else’s helmet.
But we’re not seeing him.
We’re seeing the perspective of the shooter behind him.
“Is everything in place?” Clinton asks.
“Just about,” the voice replies. “Waiting on David’s cam.”
“Got it,” another voice says. “Feed should be coming through.”
The screen splits into four angles. Two from the men, the other two, the viewpoints from their sniper scopes.
“Alright, boys,” Clinton says, grin widening. “Let’s get this party started.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are they?” Spike mutters, leaning forward.
The men on the screen turn…and my world tilts.
My heart stops.
Not metaphorically.
Not dramatically.
It…fucking…stops.
Because I know that skyline. I know that tree line. I know that expanse of desert. The angle shifts slightly, and I see it.
The Iron Shadows compound.
Our gate.
Our walls.
My home…Abigail.
Clinton laughs.
“We’re getting your revenge against those desert bikers. They hurt your men, so we’ll do the same to theirs.”
The camo-clad shooter kneels, and I watch as he adjusts his scope.
The crosshairs lift.
They’re aiming right at our roofline.
My pulse slams back into my body so violently, I see red at the edges of my vision.
“Wind’s steady,” one of them mutters. “Target one in sight.”
