He who brings hell

Sniper

**Kael Maddox – POV**

The sound of gunfire cracked again, echoing off the shattered concrete walls like thunder. I pressed my back tighter against the pillar, breath sharp and ragged, adrenaline surging. Bullet casings littered the ground like gold teeth, hot and gleaming.

Darren crouched beside me, his hands shaking as he tried to peek from behind the low barrier. The whites of his eyes were wide, frantic.

“What do you *mean* they’re targeting us?” he barked over the ringing in our ears. “You said us, Kael! Why us?”

I didn't look at him. My eyes stayed forward, calculating the shooter’s rhythm, listening for the exact tempo between shots. One second. Two. Four.

“On the count of three,” I said sharply, pushing down my panic, “we move.”

“What?” Darren hissed. “Kael—Kael—do you even hear yourself? Bullets are raining from the damn sky and you’re asking us to *run*? Into *that*?!”

The next shot rang out, shattering the steel pipe inches above our heads. Darren yelped and ducked.

“You want us to run into the bullets?! What the hell are you talking about?”

I finally turned to him. His chest was heaving. His courage frayed to threads.

“It’s a CheyTac M200 Intervention,” I said evenly, voice steady despite the chaos. “Sniper-class. Fires a .408 round. Custom scope. Deadly from over two kilometers out.”

Darren blinked, confused. “What—what the hell does that even mean, Kael?!”

I leaned in closer, voice low and controlled.

“It means…” I held up two fingers, “...it takes him time to reload after every shot. That’s our only window.”

“You’re serious?” Darren stammered.

“Dead serious,” I replied. “He’s not using an automatic. He has to rechamber each round manually. Bolt-action system. He shoots once, pauses to reload, and that’s our gap.”

Darren stared at me like I was a lunatic.

“We're going to run during that pause,” I said. “On my count. Three seconds. We move. If we wait, he’ll pick us off like fish in a barrel.”

Darren swallowed hard.

I didn’t give him time to argue again.

I grabbed a chunk of concrete near my foot—twisted metal still embedded—and hurled it with all my strength toward a rusted oil drum down the alley.

The clatter was loud.

And just as I predicted,

Crack!

The sniper fired again, hitting the drum, sparks flying.

“THREE!” I shouted.

“RUN!”

Darren didn’t hesitate this time.

We bolted from behind cover. My boots hit the pavement hard as we zigzagged through the alley, ducking low, hearts pounding. Another shot came too late—it hit a wall behind us, dust exploding in a fiery bloom.

We hit the car.

I yanked the door open and shoved Darren inside, diving in after him. The engine roared to life under my fists.

I slammed the gear into reverse, tires screeching as we spun away from the kill zone.

---

My mind raced.

I needed to waste his ammo.

A sniper that skilled didn’t fire unless he was confident. That meant his shots were deliberate, precise. But he didn’t know I *knew* his rhythm. His reload pattern.

I could use that.

“Think, Maddox…” I muttered, one hand on the wheel, the other digging through the glovebox until I found an old handheld flare.

Perfect.

As we veered through the twisted city roads, I kept low behind the wheel, glancing at broken windows and rooftops. He was still hunting. I knew it.

I threw the flare out the side window and watched it bounce, sparking violently.

Crack!

Another shot. He went for it.

He wasted another bullet.

Good.

Darren was still panting beside me. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t afford to.

Not yet.

My eyes narrowed as I sped toward the southeast end of the city—the old textile building. Half-collapsed, easy access, and the perfect sniper’s nest.

If I was him, that’s where I’d be.

I floored the accelerator.

We were heading there next.

Because if I was right… the shooter wasn’t just some hired gun.

He knew me.

And I was going to find out why