Once she looked into the lens, she embraced death.
Deputy Nicolette Rivers settled against the Remington’s cheek weld and peered through the Leupold scope. Five hundred yards away in a two-story farmhouse with chipped white paint flaking off the wood siding, a domestic situation had turned volatile. For the first time in more than three years, Nic was called on to use skills she’d hoped to never use again.
While the sheriff wanted to negotiate a peaceful end, he wasn’t stupid enough to keep Nic on the sidelines. He needed her eyes on the target: the out-of-control man standing over the cowering woman and her three children. Nic’s mouth drew into a thin line. She’d chosen this area for its lack of hostility and crime. Had chosen Nowheresville, Iowa, because there wasn’t a need for a former marine sniper.
Nic regretted putting her special skills on her résumé. “This is Rivers reporting in. I’m in position,” she said into her mic receiver.
“Go ahead,” Sheriff Hamilton replied.
The sheriff’s command post was on the opposite side of the house from her position. The abandoned truck made for a perfect spot. It was the right height from the bed to the roof, leaving her able to rest on the rusted frame and lean into her scope. And the huge, uncovered picture window at the back of the house gave her access to the hostage situation.
Nic rattled off the position of each person in the room, the layout as far as she could see, and what the subject was doing. All info the sheriff expected, knowing he’d use it as he negotiated. Inside the house, the man lifted a bottle of liquor to his lips and guzzled. His actions tugged up the bottom of his shirt and revealed more surprises. “Male subject … Dusty is drinking. He’s carrying a twenty-gauge and has a nine-millimeter tucked in his pants’ waistband. Do you copy?”
“Copy that, Rivers.”
Before the sheriff’s link fully closed, Nic heard a fellow deputy’s protests in the background. He’d been harassing Hamilton to be allowed to talk to the target—his cousin—and was denied. In fact, Deputy Doug Walker had been ordered to leave the premises before Nic hiked off to grab her rifle and get into position. Walker swore up and down his cousin would never in a million years hurt his wife and kids. Never.
Famous last words.
Nic blew air between her puckered lips. Another disgruntled husband taking matters into his own hands. She ground her teeth, popping her jaw. Even at 500 yards away, she could sense the tension flowing from the man. The Leupold put her right there in the middle of the action, minus the noise.
Dusty threw the now-empty bottle. His wife and kids recoiled; the younger of the bunch ducked her head into her mother’s neck. Words were exchanged between the adults; Dusty’s face turned a ripe shade of crimson. He waved the shotgun at the front of the house.
Suddenly he jerked straight as a board and then rotated. An ugly scowl crossed his face as he stomped out of sight.
“He’s left my visual.”
“Stay steady. He’s probably answering the phone.”
A bead of sweat slithered between Nic’s shoulder blades. More formed on her upper lip. She was roasting in full tactical gear. She should’ve set up the blind to protect her from the late September sun. But Hamilton worried the situation would escalate quickly, and he needed her on the rifle. The heatwave sweeping through Iowa hurled her back to the Afghan climate.
Don’t go there, Nic. Focus on the target with the gun.
Target. Not Dusty. Old habits died hard. In the back of her mind, she knew that was a man inside the house, a father and husband with friends, family, and coworkers. But in the course of the day, maybe the week, he’d lost it and decided holding his family at gunpoint sounded like a good idea.
She had to separate the situation from the personal aspect.
Shut it down, Nic. You weren’t trained to sympathize with the targets. He’s pointing a gun at children, endangering their lives. And that makes him a threat.
