Beckett stood up, his joints popping like gunfire. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and looked toward the horizon. The ghost was gone, but in the jungle, the silence never lasted long.
"He’s got a thermal," Beckett muttered. "He's waiting for us to sweat." "Then don't," Miller replied.
The recoil punched his shoulder. Before the sound could even echo off the surrounding hills, the glass glint in the bell tower vanished.
Beside Beckett, Richard Miller—his father’s old protégé and a man who treated war like a chess match—watched through a spotter scope.
In the tower, the shadow shifted. A muzzle rose. Beckett had a split second—the space between heartbeats. He didn't think about the politics or the cartel money. He thought about the lead. He exhaled, feeling the "natural respiratory pause" his father had taught him a lifetime ago. Crack.
"Target neutralized," Miller said, finally lowering his binoculars. "One shot. Ultimate kill."
