BEFORE ANDREW PHIPPS BECAME A sniper with the Tulsa Police Department’s Special Operations Team, he’d been a “Dark Green” United States Marine. More specifically, he’d been a member of Force Reconnaissance or “Force Recon,” a special operations unit within the Corps, like the Navy’s SEALS or the Army’s Green Berets and Delta teams.
Tonight he found himself in a situation he’d been in countless times before, except he wasn’t miles behind enemy lines in some godforsaken third-world country. Instead, he was just outside Hicksville, USA, on a direct-action mission. He sat beside a gravel road with a bolt-action .30-06. The weapon paled in comparison to the rifle he carried in Recon or even with the police department but was more than adequate for tonight’s black op.
This mission’s HVI—High-Value Individual—should appear in his sights at a mere forty yards. Phipps’ far-from-optimal position was necessitated by the terrain and made acceptable by the fact that he didn’t have to worry about an enemy force returning fire. Upon arrival, he found the woods so thick that he decided to remove the rifle’s cheap scope and get up-close and personal. Unless already engaged in a firefight, he’d never take a similar shot while deployed in a military action.
No worries. He’d drop Thorpe with one high-powered, well-placed round, then casually stroll out of the woods. Thorpe, the poor clueless bastard, would probably illuminate himself with his own headlights. Phipps only real concern was the man lying beside him.
Thadius Shaw was serving as his “spotter,” though Phipps didn’t plan on using him for anything other than as an accessory to murder; Shaw’s direct involvement would help keep the man’s mouth shut.
A few hours ago, Shaw would never have agreed to come along on this undertaking. But his attitude had changed when McDonald convinced him that Thorpe had murdered his best friend, Daniels—and wouldn’t stop until they were all dead. Shaw was unaware that the man who’d actually killed his friend lay beside him. Phipps hadn’t exactly enjoyed killing Daniels…or maybe he did; he wasn’t sure anymore. He’d always gotten satisfaction from killing the enemy in combat but now wondered if he just enjoyed killing—period. He knew one thing: he’d relish putting a bullet in Thorpe’s head, and his only regret would be that Thorpe wouldn’t see it coming. In the sniper’s world, death was like a light switch; you’re dead well before the sound waves of the shot reach your corpse.
Both men were dressed in cheap camouflage. Phipps didn’t want to wear his ghillie suit and risk tearing a piece off on a branch. He’d handled the material enough that his DNA was probably all over the suit. Instead, he lay concealed in the bush, wearing discount-store camouflage, looking through the sights of a deer rifle. He was here to kill a man who’d become a threat to his freedom, and Marines had always been in the freedom-protection business. Phipps didn’t know much about Thorpe; the man seemed cordial enough, but that didn’t mean a thing. McDonald appeared to be a nice guy, too, and one would never guess the shit he was into.
Phipps looked over at a shivering Shaw and thought to himself, worthless. He’d told the dumbass to dress warm. There’s nothing colder than lying motionless on frozen ground waiting to ambush someone. He didn’t know if Shaw was shaking from the cold and sleet or from nerves; probably a combination of both. Phipps was glad this would be an easy kill because Shaw didn’t inspire much confidence. In addition, Shaw normally wore eyeglasses that Phipps had forced him to remove. He didn’t want light reflecting off the lenses and giving away their position. So, besides being an untrained, out-of-his-element shivering little bitch, he was also half blind to boot. Phipps wouldn’t be surprised to hear the man’s teeth begin to chatter.
If Phipps were to be perfectly honest, his own toes were starting to feel the cold. He wished Thorpe would get his sorry white ass home so he could put a bullet in it and return to his heated home and ESPN. While these thoughts swirled in his mind, he noticed movement in the darkness of Thorpe’s property. Two shapes ran toward the fence—dogs.
Where the fuck did they come from?
“What the…?” Shaw said loudly.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Phipps whispered.
What the hell is this? They’d been here for two and a half hours and hadn’t seen a thing—and now dogs were roaming the fence line? One of the dogs paused and looked across the road and just to the left of where he and Shaw were lying. It began to growl.
“That fucking dog sees us,” Shaw said with obvious fear in his voice.
“He doesn’t see us; he smells us…and now he probably hears us. If you open your mouth again I’m going to slit your fucking throat.”
As soon as his words came out, the trees in front, above and behind them burst with light. Shaw immediately jumped to his feet and turned to run deeper into the woods. The crack of supersonic bullets parted the air over Phipps head. The rounds were followed by a short yelp from Shaw as he continued his flight for safety.
Fucking automatic gunfire—sounded like a three-round burst from an M-4 or modified AR-15.
Phipps fired a round toward where he’d seen a muzzle flash.
A second burst came in from a different location.
Goddamnit! The son-of-a-bitch was shooting and moving! Phipps hugged the earth and crawled away from the gunfire—some of which came too close to finding its mark. When he had cover between him and the threat, he stood and began making his way deeper into the woods. He had to find that fucking Shaw.
Or maybe he didn’t.
THORPE LAY PRONE ABOVE THE creek bed using the bank as cover. Two extension cords, now connected, stretched beside him. The hot end came from his barn and the other led into the woods across the road. Thorpe had picked a trough across the gravel and buried the cord. On the opposite side, he’d connected a three-way splitter. Those cords fed several different sets of lights concealed in the trees. Thorpe had even used clear Christmas lights in the branches well above the ground.
As soon as Thorpe connected the two extension cords, the tree line had come alive with a curtain of light, and he’d caught movement several yards to the right of where his weapon was trained—something moving fast. Thorpe had let out a burst from his AR-15 toward the distant figure, then tucked his head and rolled several feet to his right. As he did so, he’d heard the distinctive high-pitched flutter of a bullet tumbling through the air to his left—ricochet. The bullet probably struck a limb before reaching his location.
There were at least two of them. One was fleeing through the woods and the other fired at Thorpe’s last position. Phipps must have a spotter accompanying him.
Thorpe raised up and let off a short burst near where he’d seen the first person rise. He fired these rounds lower anticipating that Phipps still lay on the ground. Thorpe tucked his head and moved again, noting the lack of return fire. He must have either hit Phipps or the man was retreating or relocating—waiting for Thorpe to let off another burst, a burst that’d be met with a rifle round between his eyes. Deciding he’d pushed his luck enough, Thorpe slid down into the creek bed and began running to the east. When he reached a wooded area east of his house, he left the ravine and made his way back to the gravel road, unsure if he’d struck either man with gunfire.
PHIPPS PICKED HIS WAY THROUGH the trees, then stopped and considered his options. He could call out to Shaw in an attempt to escape this debacle together. Or he could locate Shaw, keep his distance, and use the man as bait. Surrounded by dead foliage, maybe Phipps would hear Thorpe approaching—then again the sound of the sleet might cover his footfalls.