I’m Sergeant Sarah Vance, a Marine scout sniper, and if I don’t pull this trigger in three seconds, five Navy SEALs are going to die violently in front of me.
Lieutenant Commander Jack Miller and his team are trapped in a narrow alley three hundred yards from the enemy objective. Seven enemy snipers hold every high angle. I watch through my scope as a high-powered round shatters Miller’s leg. He crashes hard onto the pavement, screaming as blood gushes from his thigh.
“Reaper 1 down! We have multiple snipers pinning us!” a desperate voice screams over the radio channel.
“Reaper 1, this is Ghost 3,” I say, steadying my breathing. “I’ve had eyes on this compound for seventy-two hours. Stay flat. I’m taking out all seven snipers in twelve minutes.”
“Twelve minutes? You’re insane!” Miller yells through the pain.
“Watch me,” I whisper.
Beside me, my spotter Noah calls out the first mark: “Eastern Ridge, eight hundred forty-seven meters.”
I squeeze the trigger. The rifle blasts, sending a wave of kinetic energy into my collarbone. The round hits Target 1 square in the chest, hurling his lifeless body off the cliff side. One.
We work with terrifying speed and precision. Target 2 is wiped off the Western Ridge. Target 3 gets eliminated in the Northern Tower, his head snapping violently backward. Target 4, 5, and 6 fall like dropped marionettes as my rounds tear through their fortified positions.
With thirteen seconds left on my mental clock, I acquire Target 7 behind reinforced sandbags. I take a half-breath and fire. The heavy projectile destroys the sandbags and collapses his chest cavity instantly.
“Compound perimeter is clean. Go, go, go!” I bark.
Miller’s squad charges into the main building, retrieving the encrypted drive. But the moment they step back outside, heavy iron gates drop, trapping them in the open yard. Dozens of heavily armed mercenaries flood the kill zone. An enemy commander grabs Miller by his tactical vest, violently slamming his head against a stone pillar until Miller’s helmet cracks and his eyes roll back into his head.
I swing my rifle left to take out Miller’s captor, but before my finger touches the trigger, a hand grabs my ponytail from behind, yanking my head back violently. A combat knife touches my throat, drawing a thin line of warm blood.
The SEALs thought they were rescued after I cleared the perimeter, but the real nightmare was standing right behind us in the dark. The rest of the story is below 👇
Part 2
The steel knife pressed harder against my trachea, the sharp edge cutting just enough to send a trickle of warm blood sliding down my collarbone.
“Don’t move, sniper,” a raspy voice hissed in English right above my ear.
I felt the heavy weight of a boot pinning my left arm into the dirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Noah thrashing on the ground—another merc had slammed a rifle butt across his face, breaking his nose in a brutal burst of blood.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my mind detached into cold, tactical survival mode. I raised my hands slowly, pretending to surrender. The merc holding the knife leaned down closer, his hot, sour breath brushing my neck. That was his fatal mistake.
In one swift, violent burst of motion, I drove my right elbow backward with everything I had. The point of my elbow connected directly with his nose, shattering cartilage with a sickening crunch. He shrieked, his grip slackening for a microsecond.
I didn’t waste it. I grabbed his wrist, twisting it inward until his arm popped out of its socket, forcing him to drop the blade. Sliding my combat knife from my chest rig, I spun around and drove the blade straight into his inner thigh, severing his femoral artery. He collapsed, screaming in agony as dark blood pooled onto the gravel.
Noah, despite his bloodied face, delivered a brutal kick to the other merc’s groin, followed by a sweeping leg strike that knocked the man flat on his back. Noah jumped on top of him, driving his fist repeatedly into the man’s throat until he stopped moving.
“Vance… you okay?” Noah gasped, wiping blood from his mouth.
“I’m alive. Look at the compound,” I growled, grabbing my Barrett.
Down in the courtyard, Commander Miller was semiconscious, his face battered and bloody, pinned under the enemy commander’s foot. Over thirty armed mercenaries were surrounding the four remaining SEALs, forcing them to their knees.
Then, the enemy commander did something that froze the blood in my veins. He pulled off his tactical helmet and looked directly up toward my sniper ridge. Through my thermal optic, his face came into sharp focus.
My stomach dropped into a abyss. It was Captain Marcus Kane—a legendary, highly decorated former Delta Force operative who was reported killed in action in Afghanistan four years ago.
“Kane…” I whispered, my voice trembling for the first time. “He’s not dead. He’s running this militia.”
“What?” Noah gasped, peering through his scope. “Kane was a war hero!”
“He’s a traitor,” I corrected coldly.
Over the radio frequency, Kane’s voice suddenly broadcasted, hijacking our comms. “Ghost 3, I know you’re watching. I know how you shoot. Only Sarah Vance shoots with that precise cadence. Come down and give yourself up, or I execute Lieutenant Commander Miller right now.”
To prove his point, Kane drew a sidearm, chambered a round, and slammed the heavy barrel into Miller’s wounded shoulder. Miller screamed in agony, his body convulsing on the stone pavement.
“We have to execute a dual-assault,” I told Noah, my mind racing. “There’s a secondary armory on the west wing of that compound. If we detonate the fuel cells near it, the chain reaction will create total chaos.”
“I’ll crawl down to the perimeter wire and trigger the fuel lines with C4,” Noah said, clutching his broken nose. “Give me three minutes.”
“Make it two,” I replied, chambering a fresh .50 caliber magazine.
I watched as Kane dragged Miller by his collar toward the center of the courtyard. Kane raised his pistol, aiming it straight at Miller’s forehead. My finger rested lightly on the trigger. The wind was picking up—twelve knots to the east. A difficult shot, but not impossible.
“Ten seconds, Vance!” Noah screamed over the comms.
Kane grinned down at Miller. “Say goodbye to your boy, Sarah.”
Kane pulled the hammer back on his pistol.
BOOM!
A massive fireball erupted from the west wing as Noah detonated the fuel cells. The violent shockwave blew outward, throwing mercenaries through the air like ragdolls. Flame and thick black smoke instantly engulfed the courtyard.
Taking advantage of the blinding smoke, I pulled my trigger. The round hit Kane’s shoulder, tearing his arm completely off at the socket. He screamed, falling backward into the dust.
“Reaper squad, fight your way out now!” I yelled into the radio.
Miller, fueled by pure adrenaline, pushed off the ground, grabbed a fallen rifle, and began blasting through the disoriented enemy soldiers. But as the smoke cleared slightly, I saw three heavily armored RPG gunners climbing onto the main roof, aiming their rockets directly at Miller’s escape route.
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