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One man veered off from the pack, headed toward me. I waited until he was far enough away from the others before I squeezed the trigger. A clean, quiet shot through the head before he fell to the ground.
The rest of them were now realizing something was wrong. Still, I waited. The more I could pick off without them finding my location, the better.
Three men went left, while two came in my direction. Most likely coming to look for their missing compatriot. I adjusted my scope. Relaxed. Kept my heart rate steady.
I lined up on the bigger of the two men. When I had the angle right, I shot one then quickly the other. They both went down, but now a man from the other group started firing in my direction. I squeezed the trigger, but my distance was off. I hit him in the shoulder.
I made some adjustments and reloaded. The two uninjured men split up, and one came toward me. Out of my peripheral vision I saw the other head toward the sheep enclosure. Fear gripped my throat. I didn’t want him near Giulio.
There wasn’t time to debate it. I had to choose where to aim.
Shifting my body, I used the mil dots in my sight to estimate his size and the distance. I did this automatically, without really thinking about it. Lining up, I squeezed off a shot. The man fell about seven meters from the sheep pen.
“Got you, asshole,” I heard in Sicilian.
I glanced in the direction of the shooter, but he was already on me. Standing three meters away, his barrel aimed at my head. I rushed to get in position. I knew it was too late, but I had to try.
It happened in a blink.
A loud bang. The Sicilian pitched forward, the rifle dropping from his hands. Red mist exploded from his chest and he went down face first.
Dio santo!
Giulio stepped out, his hands still bracing the pistol. He saw me and his shoulders relaxed. “Thank fuck.”
A shape moved in the brush. Twenty meters, eleven o’clock. “Get down,” I barked at Giulio as I searched for the fucker in my scope.
A spray of ammunition rained into the area where Giulio had been standing.
I didn’t calculate or plan my shot. I just squeezed the trigger, trusting my instincts and my training.
My bullet went straight through the man’s forehead.
I jumped up and sprinted toward the spot where I saw Giulio go down. His body was flat on the ground, face first, and I swore my stomach dropped out through my toes. I couldn’t see any blood. Hands shaking, I dropped to my knees. Rolled him over.
He blinked up at me. “Are they dead?”
Relief cascaded through me and I sagged, bracing my palms on the ground. Cazzo madre di dio. He was alive. I tried to drag in air. “We should check, but I believe they’re all dead.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” I croaked.
I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I had served many tours, gone on many missions. I’d seen death over and over, been in countless dangerous situations. Never had a panic attack or PTSD. Never lost my shit in the middle of a battle.
But right now, faced with how different tonight may have turned out, my lungs weren’t working right.
I was just . . . so fucking glad he was alive.
“Hey.” Giulio was there, his hands on my face. “We’re okay. I’m okay. Breathe, Alessio.”
Soft blue eyes found mine, and I let myself fall into them. I wasn’t a weak man by any means, but right now I felt raw and unsure.
“That’s it, baby,” he said quietly. “Just breathe.”
Then he kissed my lips. A simple brush of our mouths, but I could feel that contact sink into my bones. Reassurance. Comfort. Relief.
I exhaled.
