Night. The Field.
"Hit!"
The ex-SEAL sniper let out a triumphant whoop, lowering his rifle.
"I nailed him," he bragged to his teammates. "1,500 meters. Low light. That was a million-dollar shot."
Years ago, during Desert Storm, he had made a confirmed kill at 2,000 meters. But that was in daylight, with perfect conditions. Tonight's shot, through the gloom of twilight, was a masterpiece.
"Maybe," the Captain grunted, standing up from his crouch. "But we need to confirm. I'll go check the body."
He signaled to the others. Ebony, the sadistic knife specialist, nodded and followed him down the hill, her face set in a grim mask. The other two assassins packed their gear and trailed behind.
No one looked at Jane.
They treated her silence as weakness, assuming she was shaken by her previous failure.
Jane watched them go, her smile faint and cold.
She knew something they didn't. She had reported her failure to the Company honestly—mostly. She told them the target was fast, strong, and dangerous. She told them he had evaded her sniper fire and beaten her in CQC.
She didn't tell them about the "punishment." Or the fact that she had enjoyed it.
The Company had responded by sending in the B-Team—five elite killers to clean up her mess. These men and women were arrogant. They didn't believe her report. They thought she had just lost her edge.
"Let them bleed," Jane whispered.
She waited until they were swallowed by the darkness before she moved. She opened her own case, assembling her custom M4 carbine with practiced ease. Click. Snap. Slide.
She followed them down the hill, keeping her distance.
She didn't believe for a second that Hunter was dead. A man who could dodge a bullet at 400 meters didn't just let himself get shot at 1,500.
"I'll be the one to send you off, handsome," she murmured, slipping into the shadows.
The Kill Zone.
Ten minutes later, the team reached the spot where Hunter had fallen.
"Blood trail," the Captain whispered into his comms. "Looks like a gut shot."
He pointed his suppressed rifle at the ground. Dark, wet stains led into the tall rye grass.
The farm had been left fallow, so the grass was waist-high—a perfect hiding spot. Or a perfect ambush site.
"He's hurt," Ebony sneered. "Let's finish it."
The Captain nodded and pushed into the grass, following the trail. Ebony followed close behind.
Jane hung back, watching the blood spatter. It looked... wrong. Too much blood for a single hit. Too consistent.
It's a lure, she thought. He's baiting them.
But she stayed silent.
The Captain moved deeper into the field, his boots crunching on dry stalks. He took a step forward.
CLICK.
SNAP!
"ARGH!"
A scream tore through the night.
The Captain collapsed, thrashing in the grass. A heavy-duty bear trap—the kind used for grizzlies—had clamped shut on his left leg, the steel teeth biting deep into bone and muscle.
"Trap! It's a trap!" he roared, clutching his mangled leg. "Help me!"
Ebony swore, crouching low. "Idiot," she hissed, moving toward him.
"Hold still, let me pry it open," she ordered, reaching for the trap's springs.
Thwip.
A soft, whistling sound cut through the air.
Ebony froze. She looked down at her chest.
A black crossbow bolt was protruding from her sternum, the fletching quivering slightly. She reached around to her back and felt the wet, sharp point where it had punched clean through her vest and body.
"Ugh..."
She gasped, her eyes widening in shock. She slumped forward, collapsing onto the Captain's shoulder.
Dead instantly.
"CONTACT!" the Captain screamed, shoving Ebony's corpse away, his face pale with terror and pain. "Ebony is down! He's here!"
Thwip.
Another whistle. Another scream from the darkness behind them.
The hunter had become the hunted.
And the night had just begun.
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