Rural Montana - 0043 HOURS

  Boots slammed asphalt. Gunfire split the night—three-round bursts, tight clusters. Military precision. SCAR rifles.

  He hit the warehouse wall hard, corrugated steel biting into his back. Pain spiked, sharp and blinding. Breath came in shallow, burning pulls. He glanced down. Blood seeped warm through his fingers. Clean pass-through—7.62 round. Deep. Fatal if he stopped.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He clenched his jaw, palm pressing tight to slow the bleeding.

  Radio static crackled, low voices coldly efficient.

  "One target still loose."

  "Copy. Sweep the perimeter. Put him down."

  Footsteps closed in, unhurried, deliberate.

  Move or die.

  Forcing his legs into motion, he raised his rifle, sighted forward. Pain narrowed his vision, brought the world into stark relief. No cover. No backup.

  He vanished into the darkness.