Hawk

February 24^th, 1990

Eyes on the target.

Always.

I don’t have to watch my back because Bull has it.

Always.

Sniper and spotter.

Two best friends since the seventh grade.

“Target is heavily secured. On my command,” Gunny says in my earpiece.

I blink but don’t move from my position. I’m ready to put the 7.26 by 51 mm bullet in the skull of the Crown Prince’s most trusted advisor, Ahmed Hakim. A man whose ties with Saddam Hussein are so thick you’d need a chainsaw to cut through them. My target is enemy number two under Hussein. A traitor to the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. On the United States’ and my own personal radar.

But the fucker is always hiding behind a wall of men. Armed and dangerous men. Five times over the past week, I’ve had eyes on the coward but have been told to stand down. The shot has to hit and eliminate the desired target. Injuring him would be considered a failure. Hakim has to die.

“That motherfucker hides behind the big guy every time. If we had the time, we could take out both. No sweat off my goddamn brow,” Bull murmurs. He chews on his gum but wisely remains quiet. The constant sound of his chewing is what helps keep me grounded. I can focus because of its consistent smack—a little trick we learned at the academy we both attended in high school. A year after graduation, and we still work better as a team than apart.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

I’m in position and have been for the past four and a half hours, long before people arrived for the ceremony where the Crown Prince is speaking. I’ve already established a good shooting position. Flat on my belly with my rifle pointed downrange at my target, I’m sighted in and ready to fire.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

A cool breeze skitters across the back of my neck. Sweat is trickling down the side of my temple, but I don’t dare move. Instead, I’m calculating the wind not just up here from my position on the top of an abandoned building, but also where my target is. The wind causes the black hair of a teen girl sitting on one of the chairs on stage to lift. She’s not just any girl—she’s the sixteen-year-old daughter of the Crown Prince. Despite Hakim being a pussy who hides behind the security, his eyes never leave the Crown Prince’s daughter. Adara. Pretty, young, vulnerable. Hakim clearly cares for her, and that’s saying something for the selfish prick.

Click.

I make an adjustment to the windage turret.

“Elevation?” Bull questions as if I’d forget. I never forget.

I double check the elevation turret, but it’s where it needs to be. Bull doesn’t require an answer. He knows how we work. When I’m in position, I don’t speak. I don’t move. I hardly fucking breathe. Any movement could affect my shot. I’m the best goddamned sniper the Marine Corp has for a reason.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The wind dies down, and I ignore the ache in my thighs. I have to piss but I’d just as soon take a leak in my pants before I moved. From my position on my belly with my legs spread apart to absorb the recoil of my shot, I always become uncomfortable.

And yet, I still don’t move.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

My thighs tingle and my shoulders ache, but I tune it out.

Focus.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

“Ceremony begins at thirteen hundred hours,” Gunny reminds us all. “Nobody blinks until I say they can.” The dig is at me. Gunny hates that I came straight from the academy and earned myself a Lance Corporal position despite being eighteen. I’ve since been promoted to an E-5 Sergeant at the young age of nineteen. I’m disciplined, hard-working, and an extremely skilled sniper thanks to Dad’s insistence I attend military school at Hargrave Military Academy since I was thirteen. Gunny can kiss my ass.

My hold is firm on the pistol grip but my thumb is loose. Another drop of sweat rolls down my forehead and my heart does a patter as it nears my eyebrow.

“Bull.” My word is yet a whisper, but he hears.

Carefully, my best friend takes his finger and wipes the sweat away, so it doesn’t slide into my eye. He does it gently and makes sure not to touch my scope. Then, he’s back to staring at our target through his binoculars.

I blink several times and run my mind through every position of my body. I make sure my rifle isn’t canted. My cheek is rested against the butt stock and my eye stares down the scope to Hakim.

Gunny grunts through the speaker. “Stand down, boys. We’re not going to get the shot. Hakim knows he’s being targeted.”

Irritation flits through me.

He always gives up when I know I can take the shot.

I can kill Hakim.

Gunny just needs to let me do it my way.

My way goes against the morals and ethics of most normal men. I’m not normal. I haven’t been normal since I put a bullet through a quail when I was nine years old. As soon as the shot finished echoing through the woods and I had her body tossed in my bag, I’d heard a squawk.

I had killed a mother.

One tiny offspring hollered for food in a nearby nest. I knew. Deep down I knew I’d shot that baby’s mother. Something inside of me—despite my father’s cold upbringing—warmed and softened. I broke for that baby bird.

But I could fix it.

I could care for that bird.

I’d gathered the tiny thing into my small fist and stroked its head with my thumb on my gloved hand. It squawked and squawked. And for the first time in ages, I grinned.

“You hear me, Corporal?” Gunny barks.

I blink away my past and focus on my present.

My target.

My goal.

What’s right in front of me.

“I can make the shot. Give me a chance,” I murmur, my heart thumping steadily in my chest.

He utters out a string of curse words before conceding. “I’m giving you four minutes, Corporal.”

My eyes are on Hakim, my target, but when he glances over at Adara, my heart rate quickens when she beams at him. Her smile is shy but wide. For him. A smile only a woman gives to her lover. Sixteen and fifty-seven. That math sucks.

You dirty dog, Hakim.

That smile proves my research was correct. While Gunny and the team were collecting intel on Hakim, I was doing my own recon. In our short amount of time, I learned a lot about little Adara. I’d suspected she and Hakim had some sort of romantic interest going on.

Click.

Adjust.

My sights have moved slightly to accommodate my target. A target that is clear. Easy.

Focus.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

“Stand down, Corp—”

Despite the suppressor on my rifle, the crack echoes off the buildings around me the moment I pull the trigger.

Don’t breathe.

Bull doesn’t dare engage, even though I’ve gone against direct orders.

I blink once and watch the girl crumple to her knees clutching her chest. Wait? Chest? Shoulder. She should be clutching her shoulder. Turning off my mind, I focus on her lover. Hakim. He roars as he breaks free from the cover of his men to be near Adara. The moment I see his fat head, I take my shot.

Crack.

“Fuuuuuck,” Bull hisses from beside me. Gunny is screaming in my earpiece but he’s being ignored for the time being.

Hakim falls on top of the girl’s unmoving body with a deadly head wound, causing blood to rush from his skull. Target eliminated.

“You fucking killed the girl,” Bull gripes, but he’s already gathering our shit so we can bolt. I’m still in position to make sure Hakim doesn’t move despite the gaping hole in his head.

“Hawk!”

I blink away my daze and lift my stiffened body from my position.

Fuck.

RPG.

I see it a second before it whizzes past me.

The explosion is deafening.

The pain is excruciating.

My short life ends before it even began.