"He’s got a thermal," Beckett muttered. "He's waiting for us to sweat." "Then don't," Miller replied.
Beckett adjusted the dial on his scope. The click was a tiny, mechanical heartbeat. Through the lens, the world became a narrow circle of heat haze and stone. He saw the glint—the sun bouncing off glass. The Devil was looking for him, too. Sniper: Ultimate Kill
In the tower, the shadow shifted. A muzzle rose. Beckett had a split second—the space between heartbeats. He didn't think about the politics or the cartel money. He thought about the lead. He exhaled, feeling the "natural respiratory pause" his father had taught him a lifetime ago. Crack. "He’s got a thermal," Beckett muttered
"Wind is shifting, three o'clock," Miller whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "Range is eight hundred meters. He’s in the bell tower, third arch from the left." The click was a tiny, mechanical heartbeat
Beside Beckett, Richard Miller—his father’s old protégé and a man who treated war like a chess match—watched through a spotter scope.
The recoil punched his shoulder. Before the sound could even echo off the surrounding hills, the glass glint in the bell tower vanished.