ELEVEN
Cara Hanson lay in the cool grass and lined up the target in her crosshairs.
The target was moving, searching for her, but she was invisible. Like a cat stalking its prey, she kept her weapon trained on the movement in the undergrowth. This would be an easy shot. She curled her finger around the trigger and smiled as she squeezed.
She heard the man cry out as he felt the impact on his back, and a deep, red stain appeared on his jacket. She’d got him! A cry of triumph left her lips, and she rose from the bracken like a monster looming from a lair. Her ghillie suit was covered with camouflage netting, making it impossible to tell whether she was man, woman or yeti.
“Aw, man, these paintballs really sting.” A U.S. Army private crawled out from the thick bushes and clambered to his feet. He turned to Cara standing on the hillside and shouted, “How did you do that? I didn’t have a clue where you were.”
“And you never will,” she shouted back, laughing.
The private took off his jacket and laid it on the ground, shaking his head in amazement at the perfect shot, right between the shoulders, just below the head.
“Nice job,” he called. “Thanks for not taking the head shot.”
“It didn’t seem fair to fill your ears with paint,” she called back. “It never washes out.”
She knelt to the ground and removed her standard-issue M24 sniper rifle from its tripod, laying it on the grass beside her.
“Well-done, Sergeant Hanson,” said a voice in the distance. She looked up to see one of her commanding officers walking toward her. “Your accuracy never fails to astonish me.”
She rose to her feet, saluting as she did so. “Thank you, sir.”
“At ease, Sergeant.”
Colonel Carter Gantry approached her with an outstretched hand. She gave hers and he shook it warmly.
“Time for me to come clean, Sergeant,” he said, releasing her hand. “There’s a reason for this prolonged target practice today.”
The colonel extended his hand toward a tall, dark figure in the distance. She’d noticed him watching the hills while she carried out her shooting exercises; saw him continuously scanning the mountainside with binoculars, hoping to search her out. This type of training drill usually employed the use of two spotters. Colonel Gantry had taken the elevated position, but she had not recognized the second spotter on the ground. Turned out, she was about to meet him. He began to walk toward her, and she took the opportunity to observe him, noting his wide shoulders and smooth, confident stride. He was wearing black combat pants and a black T-shirt. The fabric of the shirt stretched against the muscles on his arms, and she suddenly felt diminutive in his presence. His face was weathered; he obviously spent a great deal of time outdoors, and the dark stubble added to his rugged exterior. She squinted against the sun. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could just make out dark curls extending beneath his green cap. She recognized the beret instantly. This was no ordinary soldier. Only a Special Forces soldier was permitted to wear the distinctive green beret.
“Sergeant Cara Hanson,” said Colonel Gantry, as the mysterious man came into plain view, “I would like you to meet Captain Dean McGovern.”
Cara brought her hand up in another salute, as she always did when facing a senior officer. The captain saluted and she stood at ease. She instantly felt uncomfortable when he began to look her up and down with an expression of surprise on his face. Her skin prickled with heat, and tiny beads of sweat ran down her back. She saw his deep, brown eyes assessing her, crinkles appearing at the edges as they caught the sun’s glare.
He turned to Colonel Gantry. “This is the sniper I’ve been watching all day?”
The colonel laughed. “Don’t let appearances deceive you, Captain McGovern. Sergeant Hanson may not look fierce but, as you’ve witnessed today, she could take you down with a clean shot any day of the week.”
The captain rubbed his face with his hands. He led the colonel a few paces away from Cara and lowered his voice. “She isn’t exactly what I was expecting.” He cast a backward glance at her. “Special Ops isn’t for the fainthearted. I need to be totally sure of her mental toughness.”
The colonel put his hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Dean, I’ve been asked to provide you with the absolute best sniper that the U.S. military has at its disposal. Sergeant Cara Hanson is that sniper. Don’t underestimate her. She’s one tough cookie.”
Cara remained standing at ease on the hillside, her knees buried in thick shrubbery. She had experienced this same kind of reaction many times since joining the army seven years ago. She was petite in stature with small, elfinlike features and she knew that she didn’t strike an imposing figure among the other soldiers of her Bobcats regiment. After all, no one was scared of a woman who looked like a Disney princess. But when she stalked her prey through the lens of her rifle, she felt as tough as any of her male colleagues.
The two men approached her. Captain McGovern’s face was unreadable as he came to stand directly in front of her, his vast shoulders casting an enormous shadow on the grass. She couldn’t help but steal a glance at his face. She saw that his nose was crooked, broken at some point, maybe more than once. His gaze rested upon hers for the tiniest of moments, and she gave a small shiver at the intensity behind his eyes.
“Sergeant,” he began, “U.S. Special Forces have been given credible information regarding an illegal weapons drop due to take place in a region not far from here. The weapons are destined for a major terrorist organization, who will use them to launch an imminent attack on U.S. soil. We must take out their main man. And fast. We need a sniper who can deliver.” He brought his face inches from hers. His breath was sweet and warm. “You only get one shot.”
She gave a small nod of the head. “Understood, sir.”
A hint of a smile passed his lips. “You up to the job?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
He took a step backward and gave her one final look up and down.
“Report
