Not This Road by Blake Pierce

Author:Blake Pierce [Pierce, Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The water tower, a steel sentinel looming over the wasteland of the sleeping town, reverberated with a hollow moan as a nocturnal breeze skirted its flanks. Perched atop this desolate giant, a man stood motionless, a specter against the star-pocked sky.

"Steady," he whispered to himself, a mantra that cut through the chill night air. His breath formed transient ghosts that danced away into nothingness. The man's hands, gloved in black, moved with precise intent, unfurling the tripod of his scoped rifle with practiced ease.

He mumbled, another soft utterance lost to the vast emptiness around him. The metal clicked quietly as he secured the stand, a sound starkly alien amidst the quietude of the hour. He was alone here, but not lonely; solitude was his chosen companion, the perfect ally for the task at hand.

He'd once heard it said that if one enjoyed their work, they didn't work a day in their lives. Or something like that...

But he was more into his hobbies.

Work paid the bills... but his hobbies? That gave him a reason to breathe.

He'd grown up hunting, after all. And he had a very specific taste in what he hunted.

The scope, when he peered through it, transformed the world into a series of concentric circles—a tunnel of focus where only his target existed. His heartbeat slowed, thudding gently in his chest like the measured tick of a clock. In this moment, his existence narrowed to the delicate alignment of crosshairs and the distant, unsuspecting road below.

"Wind's calm... good." He adjusted the turret on his scope ever so slightly, accounting for the negligible breeze. The numbers etched on the dial were familiar friends, their meaning ingrained deep within his subconscious after countless hours spent on ranges and rooftops alike.

"Alignment's perfect," he observed under his breath, the words serving less as a confirmation and more as a ritual of readiness. The man blinked once, long and deliberate, before reopening his eyes with razor-sharp clarity. His mind was clear, any extraneous thought swept away by the tide of concentration that now filled him.

Three tours overseas, working special forces... He knew the ritual. Things hadn't ended well on his last tour.

He frowned, considering this, and exhaled deeply, trying to steady his nerves. A racing heartbeat only sent bullets astray.

"Time to work," he said tersely, the words a signal to himself that the rehearsal was over. This was the real performance. Every muscle, every synapse, was honed for this singular purpose. He was no longer just a man; he was the embodiment of precision, a conduit for the cold machinery cradled in his arms.

Sniper school. Demolitions school.

He'd made it through BUDS on his first try.

As the minutes slipped by, unheeded by the man and the silent town below, the water tower stood watch, an indifferent monolith to the impending act that would soon ripple through the stillness of the night.

The reticle of his scope hovered like a predatory shadow over the cracked asphalt of the old road. Far below, the moonlight cast a

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