Chapter 12
I only felt the release.
“Shot out!” Cross yelled, his voice cracking. He was glued to the spotting scope. “Four seconds flight time. Tracking… tracking…”
The bullet was a ghost in the dark. A .416-caliber reaper flying through a mile and a half of chaotic mountain air.
One second. The bullet climbed into the thin, frozen atmosphere.
Two seconds. It hit the crosswind shear. The invisible river of air tried to push it right, but I had aimed into the void. The bullet rode the wind like a hawk.
Three seconds. It began its terminal descent, dropping hundreds of feet, plunging toward the tiny black square in the concrete fortress.
Four seconds.
“Splash!” Cross screamed.
I stayed in the scope. For a split second, I saw a tiny, microscopic spark of orange inside the black square. It wasn’t a candle this time. It was the friction of a brass jacketed round disintegrating against the far wall of the hallway.
And then, I saw the shadow disappear.
The guard didn’t fall. He was simply gone. The kinetic energy of a Barrett round at that distance is enough to turn a human being into a memory.
“Target neutralized!” Cross was nearly sobbing. “Direct hit! Headshot! The keys are on the floor! Jocelyn, you did it! You actually did it!”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
The adrenaline dump was so massive that my entire body began to shut down. I rolled onto my back in the snow, staring up at the cold, indifferent stars. My right arm was a lightning rod of agony, the nerves firing in a chaotic symphony of pain.
But for the first time in three years, I felt light.
“We’re not done,” I wheezed, the freezing air burning my throat. “The breach team. Tell them to move.”
“They’re already moving,” Cross said, his hands flying over his radio. “Eagle One to Breach. Target is down. Hallway is clear. Go! Go! Go!”
In the valley below, the silent darkness erupted into chaos.
Flashes of light signaled the arrival of the extraction helicopters. They came in low and fast, skimming the treetops, their rotors throwing up massive clouds of snow.
Small, black-clad figures swarmed over the concrete walls of the bunker. Flashbangs detonated like miniature suns, the muffled thump-thump-thump of suppressed rifles echoing up the mountainside.
I sat up, my hand still shaking, and watched the rescue.
Twenty minutes later, the radio crackled with a sound that made the three years of misery worth every second.
“Breach to Eagle One. We have the asset. Repeat, we have Elara. She is unharmed. Proceeding to extraction point.”
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since Syria.
“Let’s get down there,” I said to Cross.
The descent was a blur. We moved as fast as the terrain allowed, the gravity of the mission finally lifting from our shoulders. By the time we reached the perimeter of the bunker, the mercenary resistance had been crushed. The “fortress” was now a graveyard of smoke and spent brass.
Hayes was standing near the landing zone, the black snow swirling around his boots.
The transport helicopter sat idling, its blades creating a rhythmic thrumming that vibrated in my chest.
And there, wrapped in a heavy olive-drab wool blanket, sat a little girl.
She was tiny. Her dark hair was matted with dust, and her eyes were wide with a terror that no eight-year-old should ever know. She was shivering, her small hands clutching the edges of the blanket.
I walked toward her.
Hayes tried to step in my way, his face a mask of professional neutrality. “Jocelyn, stay back. She needs medical—”
“Get out of my way, Director,” I said.
My voice was quiet, but it had the edge of the Barrett’s muzzle brake. Hayes stepped aside.
I knelt in the snow in front of the little girl.
She looked at me, her lower lip trembling. She saw the tactical gear, the mud on my face, the cold intensity in my eyes. And then, she saw my right hand.
It was shaking. Violently. The metal brace was scratched and dull, clicking rhythmically with every spasm of my wrist.
She stared at the hand. To most people, it looked broken. It looked weak.
I reached out with that shaking hand. I didn’t try to hide it. I didn’t turn on the power.
I gently rested my trembling fingers on her shoulder.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”
Elara looked at my hand, then up at my face. She saw the tremor, and for some reason, the fear in her eyes began to fade. She didn’t see a monster. She saw someone who was hurt, just like she was.
She reached out with her tiny, freezing hand and gripped my shaking fingers.
The contact sent a jolt through me that no battery could ever provide. Her grip was firm. It was a bridge between two broken things.
