Chapter3

The sandstorm hit on the evening of the third day. It started as a yellow wall rising from the horizon, thick as an overturning mudslide. Ten minutes later, the entire camp was swallowed whole. Coarse gravel scoured the surface of our goggles like sandpaper, and visibility plummeted from fifty meters to less than five. Paper targets on the range were torn to shreds, the metal frames shrieking as they swayed. Butcher's voice cut through the howling wind in broken bursts: "Cease fire! Clear your weapons! Everyone fall back to cover!"

The recruits lowered their muzzles, scrambling and crawling behind the sandbag fortifications. Some coughed violently, choking on the sand; others curled up in the corners, pulling their coats tight to shield their faces. Viper leaned his M4A1 against a sandbag and turned sideways to light a cigarette. The lighter clicked three times before it finally caught. The flame flared briefly behind his goggles, then died.

A hand clad in a tactical glove slapped my shoulder. Butcher leaned in, his sand-laced breath hitting the side of my neck. Behind his goggles, his eyes narrowed into slits. "Ray, head out to lane seven at the far end and change the targets. The wind blew all the paper away over there."

Four hundred meters out. Completely hidden within the dim yellow curtain of wind; not even the shadow of the frames was visible. Walking out in this weather meant a ninety percent chance of getting lost, or worse, catching a stray bullet from our own guys. I didn't say a word. I grabbed a roll of new paper targets, pushed past the wire mesh at the edge of the bunker, and hunched my back, stepping into the sandstorm. The gale howled in my ears. I trudged forward, stumbling with every step, making it look as though I could barely keep my balance. Sand poured into my collar and cuffs, stinging my skin like needles.

About three hundred meters out, the bunker behind me was reduced to a blurred silhouette, fading in and out of the dust. I was alone on the empty range. The wind shoved me violently from the side, so I turned my body to reduce the surface area.

"Bang—"

The wind carried over a muffled gunshot. It was Viper's M4A1. I'd been listening to it for a month; I could identify it with my eyes closed. A split second later, a searing slipstream grazed the edge of my right combat boot. With a thud, the bullet burrowed into the sand by my foot, kicking up a tiny spray of scorching grit. Point of origin: rear right. Point of impact: fifteen centimeters in front of my foot. A warning shot, range calculated perfectly—meant to scare me shitless without tearing flesh.

I threw myself forward with the momentum, sprawling onto the sand. I clutched my head with both hands, my body trembling. I looked back toward the bunker. Through the storm, a faint figure was lowering his rifle, shoulders shaking with laughter. Viper's favorite party trick: watching the "old bones" scurry and cower in the dust.

My nose was pressed against the dirt. The edge of the bullet hole was still steaming, and the smell of gunpowder drifted into my nostrils. Black Steel issued cheap, brass-cased reloads. Upon ignition, the primer left behind a pungent stench of sulfur. That was the scent lingering in the crater.

But deep down, my olfactory senses caught something else. Drifting in on the wind, incredibly faint, but completely different. A cold, burnt-pine aroma—the distinct signature of the double-base propellant used in military-grade subsonic special ammunition. Viper wasn't using that kind of ammo. Someone upwind was firing a suppressed weapon, and Viper's gunshot had perfectly masked it.

I pinched a small cluster of sand from the edge of the bullet hole, rubbed it between my fingertips, and brought it to my nose for a gentle sniff. The residual pine scent was unmistakable. Tactical muscle memory snapped awake instantly. This was the signature of an American-made Mk22 suppressed sniper round, standard issue for Joint Special Operations Command sniper teams.

I maintained my cowardly posture, cowering with my hands on my head, but my eyes changed. My pupils contracted. My gaze pierced the yellow curtain of sand, locking onto the main watchtower at twelve o'clock. Normally, two high-powered searchlights sat atop the tower, their blinding white beams turning the yard as bright as day every night. But now they were dark, like blinded eyes. The backup generators hadn't kicked in. It wasn't a malfunction. No EMP had gone off yet, which meant the cables had been physically cut. The wiring was at the base of the tower—a silent takedown operation. Wind speed was fourteen meters per second, creating extreme ambient noise. It was the perfect window for a stealth op.

I yanked off my dust-caked goggles. Free from the tinted lenses, the dim light refocused on my retinas. Four hundred meters away, several highly unnatural shadows materialized along the edge of the wire fence. Not the desert camo of Black Steel. They wore pitch-black tactical polymer combat suits. No insignia. No reflection. Their movements were impossibly light. Maintaining a tight formation, they infiltrated toward the main building in a standard CQB wedge, communicating via hand signals in absolute silence.

Hostile incursion. At least five hostiles, possibly more. They had already secured the east watchtower. The sentry up top hadn't sounded the alarm; odds were his neck had already been snapped. And Viper and Butcher were still huddled behind their sandbags, laughing at a "coward," completely oblivious to the enemy muzzles already pressing against the back of their necks.

I slowly lowered my hands from my head and slid the discarded paper targets under my knees. My fingertips traced the inner edge of my combat boot, finding the tactical knife concealed in the lining of my pant leg. Carbon-fiber handle, non-reflective. A ceramic-composite blade, invisible to metal detectors. I pulled it out half an inch, then pushed it back. A cold glint flashed in the dust and vanished. The camp's surveillance was still running—but not for long.

Up on the tower, the ruby-red AI indicator light was still blinking, scanning me once every four seconds. At this moment, the data it recorded read: Target curled on the ground. Non-threatening. Elevated heart rate, consistent with a fear response.

Keeping my head down, the corners of my mouth curled up slightly. The time had finally come.