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Bree only caught flashes of the besuited men as they ran past the windows in the stairwell. The timing for an accurate shot was too small. By the time she saw them, she couldn’t squeeze a round off in time to hit a target.
Even as the crowd underneath her grew more intense, their volume escalating to a dull roar, Bree heard the explosion that rocked the apartment building across the street. It had silenced the protestors for a moment before infuriating them even more. They were incensed over the lack of security they perceived in the country, so gunshots and explosions only amplified their rage.
Bree aimed her rifle to the front door, hoping Smith’s men would exit the building there rather than going out back. She would have them dead to rights if they did.
She waited. Three seconds went by. Then five.
The front door burst open and three men in suits spilled out. The one in front wore black, the other two gray.
Each held a rifle.
They slid to an abrupt halt when they saw the large gathering of protestors in front of them. The street had filled while they’d been shooting the building up. They aimed at the people, but didn’t shoot. With a crowd that large, the men wouldn’t have enough bullets to put more than a dent in it.
Bree aimed at the man in black, figuring him to be the leader. She sighted his chest.
Her finger hovered over the trigger.
She called to Tate, “I’ve got them out front. Should I engage?”
“Fire away!” Tate huffed.
Bree’s finger pulled the trigger back.
She paused when she saw one of the men in gray fish an object from his pocket.
The man held it up.
It was the device they’d used in the subway that morning. She sucked in a harsh breath when she thought of what an insane crowd the size of the one below her could do to the city. It would make Arthur’s Creek look like a day in the park.
She adjusted her crosshairs, aimed at the man in gray.
As she watched, all three of them jammed earbuds in.
Bree held steady for a moment, struggling with what she should do. If she shot the man with the device, one of the others might be able to pick it up and activate it before she could chamber another round and fire again. She was fast, damn fast, but she didn’t want to risk it.
Instead, she moved the rifle left and up, sighting the small object in the man’s hand.
She squeezed the trigger.
Felt the rifle buck against her shoulder.
Heard the bark of the gun.
She looked through the scope, praying her aim was true.
It was.
The device was gone, blown to pieces by the high-velocity round.
So was most of the man’s hand.
A bloody stump with bits of flesh and bone jutting in random directions remained where his hand had been. He gaped at it in shock. Blood spurted from the exposed end of his wrist.
The man in black’s head snapped around as he searched for the shooter. He locked eyes on Bree as she worked the action of her rifle.
He raised his own, loosed a volley of rounds in her direction.
Chucks of concrete chipped away from the small wall in front of her. Dust puffed around her rifle and scope. She ignored the incoming fire as best she could as she moved the crosshair in his direction.
The other man in gray followed his lead and shot at Bree. The combined gunfire was too much, so she dropped down behind the wall.
“Damn!” She grabbed the mic. “One of them is wounded. The others are firing at me! Can’t get another shot off.”
No one responded.
The gunfire chipping away at the railing behind her stopped.
Bree scooted along the wall, staying under the edge. She moved in a hunkered-down stance for fifteen meters, and then glanced over the top. All three of the men were gone.
The crowd surged toward the open front door.
“They’re inside,” Bree said into the comms unit. “The rioters might be following. Get out of there!”