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"Damn it, Bardem," she hissed under her breath, studying the device. There was a simplicity in its design that belied its potential for destruction. Her eyes traced the wires at a safe distance, and she hadn't spotted Bardem on the platform above yet, though she didn't doubt he was tracking her climb.
"Blue or red?" Ethan's voice would have joked, had he been conscious to see this.
"Neither," she whispered back to the ghost of his words. Her decision made, she took aim.
The shot rang out—a crack that split the silence of the open plain. Rachel didn't blink as the bullet severed the wire with precision. The device let out a small, anticlimactic whine, the threat dissipating into the hot air. The silence returned, heavy and expectant.
She fired again, and the bomb fell from its perch, useless now.
She heard a voice curse above her, and she continued up, towards the top of the ladder.
A shot split the air.
Rachel's muscles tensed, coiling like springs. The bullet whined past, close enough to fan her cheek with its passing fury. She didn’t flinch. Her gaze locked onto the sniper's perch.
She scrambled up onto the platform, back to the circular, metal rail.
And there, she spotted him, the sniper hunched against the rail, his rifle clutched tightly in one hand, his other hand scrambling for a pistol for the more proximate threat.
But she beat him to it, her own gun snapping to attention as she half-crouched by the water tower's metal shell. .
About ten feet away, he stared at her, the small of his back pressed against the curling, rusted rail.
"Drop the rifle, Bardem." Her tone was iron—cold, unyielding.
His eyes—a maelstrom of madness and method—fixed on her. He looked exactly as his photos had--a military haircut, gray eyes, and a perpetual sneer.
He tried to raise his gun, but she fired again. He stumbled back, but his gun fell. She didn't know if she'd hit him.
Now, she spotted him reaching for something. Another incendiary device? Hard to know as his hand fell into his backpack. She didn't wait to find out. He was stumbling to cover, behind the round, curving dome of the water tower, as if the two of them were pressing their backs against the ridge of a metal circus tent.
She couldn't wait to see what he had in that bag. She fired again, this time missing his hand--which was only a sliver as he retreated to safety.
But she lunged all the same.
Realizing now he couldn't escape, he backpedaled, coming right at her.
They collided, a tangle of limbs. Metal screamed beneath them, an echo of their struggle. Rachel's training kicked in, each movement precise, muscle memory guiding her in the visceral dance of combat.
His hand was bleeding, and she realized she'd struck him earlier. But now, her wrist was slick with his blood as they fought for control of her weapon. He was cursing, spitting and gasping as he fought. His gray eyes were wide with madness.
"You killed her," he whispered. "You killed her!"
She struggled back, fighting. "I had nothing to do with your wife's--"
But she didn't have time to finish the sentence before his knee slammed into her gut, sending her doubling over and gasping at the ground.
The wind was knocked out of her, but she didn't falter. Rachel pushed through the pain and clutched the gun tightly, regaining her footing.
His grip on her gun loosened, and she took advantage of the opportunity. In a swift, calculated move, she twisted her hand, yanking the weapon from his grasp. He stumbled, managing to catch himself just in time to avoid falling off the platform.
The sudden loss of the weapon seemed to infuriate him even more. He lunged at her again, a crazed look in his eyes. Rachel didn't hesitate. Her own gun came up, and she fired once, twice. Bardem's body jerked with each impact. She'd struck his shoulder and upper arm.
For a moment, he just stood there, blinking, stunned.
A sniper's shock. Often so far removed from combat, when it came close and calling it was a surprising thing.
But now, she glared at him, weapon in hand, pointed at his head. "Don't move," she snapped.
