"Where is that cocksucker?" I hissed, looking through my scope, trying to find the no-good, rotten perpetrator hiding inside the bank, holding everyone inside as hostages and using them as shields from us.

My two spotters held their binoculars to their eyes, scanning the area, shaking their heads the longer they looked around for the suspect without such luck.

Until now.

Murphy lowered his field glasses, looked straight ahead with his own eyes, then returned the binoculars to his perfect globes, saying, "Don't shoot. I see him. He's hiding behind a woman and keeping her tightly close to him as he wanders around."

Goddammit.

"That's not what I asked." Through gritted teeth, I seethed, "Where? Is. The. God damn motherfucker?"

Murphy lowered his binoculars when he turned his head and looked at me, his eyes showing fear in his eyes. "He has a hostage, Mitchell. Don't be careless, or she's dead."

To be a superb hunter, you need to be an accurate shooter. Only, I'm not a hunter per se. I'm a sniper—which, in my eyes, is similar since snipers sometimes have to hunt down the person they need to take off the streets, and your shot has to be accurate to get the job done. And so nobody else gets hurt or killed. Also, being a sniper, there are no ifs, ands, or buts because you must be accurate when you pull that trigger.

As a Marine, I trained to be a sniper, amongst other important, strategic things they wanted me to learn. After eight years—four years of serving my country and four years as a reservist—doing countless tours, becoming a certified sniper, a black belt in martial arts, and more, I transitioned to the Army National Guard. And because they say I'm the best, most feared, and deadliest sniper, the Mobile, Alabama, police department hired me to lead their sharpshooter/sniper department.

After I joined the Army National Guard, they learned my qualifications and skills, and they trained me to be one of the world's most lethal warriors by making me a green beret. And I take my job seriously.

So, for Murphy to order me not to shoot, fearing I'd make a mistake by killing an innocent woman, pisses me off.

I don't make mistakes.

Not anymore.

Not after making two massive back-to-back mistakes in my life.

Marrying Felicity after I impregnated her and our marriage lasting only a year was one of my mistakes. But the biggest mistake I ever made, which still haunts me to this day, was leaving the best thing that ever happened to me—the love of my life as she slept.

It's not that I wanted to leave her while she slept. I had to.

After my sergeant had called in the middle of the night, informing me there was a job I had to get done, that my ride was outside my apartment waiting, and that I only had ten minutes to get on base before the plane took off, I had to flee.

I was warned that if I weren't there on time, there would be hell to pay, and I'd be done. So, I dressed the fastest I ever dressed and left without a note or saying goodbye. And I felt like the biggest piece of shit for not waking her and letting her know I had to leave for a job that needed to get done.

I had no choice but to leave how I did. I did what I had to do—what I was ordered to do, and I've been paying for losing the one woman I loved with all my heart ever since.

What still pisses me off about that situation is that I was told I'd only be gone for a month. I ended up being away for two long fucking years. If I were only away for the month I was promised, the love of my life would still be in my life.

I want to think she'd still be, anyway.

I tell everyone she was the best thing that ever happened to me because she was. But there's also this. I have a daughter now. She's also the best thing that's happened to me—even though she hates my guts, which I'm sure it's because her mother fills her head with a ton of bullshit. Shit, that's far from the truth, just to get our daughter to treat me like I'm the worst piece of shit ever to breathe.

That's how my ex-wife looks at and thinks of me, and she believes everyone who comes in contact with me should look at and view how she does.

So, because of losing my girl over a job I had to leave and do and meeting and marrying the biggest bitch ever to walk the earth after seeing the love of my life in the arms of another man, I do my best not to make another mistake. The last thing I want to be known as is a failure, especially in my daughter's eyes.

I can't help but sigh thinking that way because that's how Everly, my ten-year-old daughter, already looks at me as—a failure.

"Have you ever known me to be careless?" I hissed. "All I asked was where the motherfucking suspect was. We don't have much time. If I don't take a shot, she and the others will be dead, and then our boss will have my ass," I groaned, repeatedly pressing my finger to my chest.

Gonzalez's hand was raised in the air, stretching and spreading his fingers, letting us know something was happening and that I needed to stop arguing with Murphy and hold fire. "I just got word that the suspect is letting all the hostages go except one—the woman he's had clinging to him." He looked at me and blinked a couple of times before informing me, "She's pregnant, Mitchell. Very, very pregnant—like due to give birth any day pregnant. So, whatever we do, we need to be smart. One shot is all it takes," he warned, his eyes returning to the building in front of us, and I sighed.

Not him, too.

Gonzalez's last statement, I know, had a double meaning. The first is that knocking the suspect down only takes one shot. Which, hello, doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out. The other meaning behind that statement is that killing the woman and her unborn baby takes one shot if our suspect moves as much as an inch when my finger pulls the trigger.

"One shot is all it'll take for me to take down the perp. You don't have to fear the other. That isn't happening," I grumbled. "I'm smarter than that. You know this too, Gonzalez."

Gonzalez pressed his finger to his earpiece, listened for a moment, then told us, "Suspect is alone with the hostage, and he's requesting quite a substantial amount of money to let her go. He said the woman and her baby are dead if he doesn't receive the money within the next hour."

He'll be dead within the next hour if I can help it. I'll take the worthless piece of shit out well before he even thinks about killing an innocent woman with child.

"They're still working with him to release the pregnant woman, telling him he'll get his money if he releases her," Gonzalez added.

Yeah, like the perp will believe anything our negotiator tells him. I mocked a quiet laugh. They never believe anything they're told until they see it with their own two eyes.

I was desperate to take down the perp before he did something stupid and lowered my eye to my scope and looked on, my finger ready on the trigger, asking him the question I already knew the answer to, "What's he asking for, anyway? A million?" Like everyone else does in a situation such as this one.

"You could say that," Gonzalez confirmed.

Figures. I rolled my eyes. "Of course, that's what the prick is asking for—they always do. The prick's inside a bank full of money; they opened the vault for him—giving him access to all the fucking money inside the bank, and he's requesting a million? He's got something else going on. He doesn't want the money, Gonzalez —he wants something else—attention. Which he's getting."

Gonzalez shrugged like I was right in my assumption. "He did ask that we talk his wife into dropping the divorce proceedings."

See...

There's always more to the story than someone asking for a boatload of money. There always is. And our suspect just proved my theory with that ridiculous request.

So, instead of aiming for his head and taking him out, I'll aim for another area I know wouldn't kill him—shooting him just enough to injure him, getting him to drop and cry out in pain, and allowing the pregnant hostage to run free.

That is if I can even get the type of shot I want. Every time he walks to the clear glass windows, he holds her in front of him, blocking us from seeing him.

Like he is right now with him taunting us, he's at the large pane of glass, standing behind the woman, holding a gun to her swollen belly, trying to tell us he's the one in charge.

Not for long, though. I'm determined to save two lives... well, technically, three lives if I include the perp... by immediately taking a shot the first chance I get.

My eye stayed on the scope, and my finger eagerly rested along the trigger, sweating my damn ass off as the sun shot its hot rays down on me as I waited patiently for my shot.

God willing, it happens soon because if it doesn't, I'll be told my existence isn't worth acknowledging, and if I wanted to make everyone around me happy, I'd jump off a cliff.

Thirty minutes later, I got what I'd been waiting for—a chance at pulling the trigger and taking down our suspect—without killing him.

When I saw the pregnant woman run past the windows in the opposite direction of our suspect, I knew that meant he was allowing her to use the restroom, but she was on a time limit. That's what I assumed happened, anyway.

When our negotiator saw our chance to rattle the suspect and get him to make a mistake, he called the bank. The lost cause man stepped into my line of vision to answer the phone, and that's when I pulled the trigger—twice. Purposely. Hitting him once in the shoulder to get the phone to drop from his hand and a shot to his leg, getting his knees to buckle and crash to the ground.

It worked.

"Suspect is down! I repeat, the suspect is down!" Murphy shouted.

Gonzalez looked at me, smiling and fist-bumping me, praising, "Good job, Mitchell. Helluva, good job."

"Hostage is out with law enforcement and medical personnel, and the suspect is now handcuffed and being treated by the EMTs for those gunshot wounds," Murphy said, rising to his feet and smiling as he proudly added, "Our job here is done."

Thank fuck, I thought, relieved this was over and relieved nobody died. I wiped away the beads of sweat dripping from my forehead and returned the smile.

Curious about the time, I looked at my watch, and seeing I still had an hour before I had to be at the school, I smiled again. I won't miss my daughter's fifth-grade graduation like my ex-wife, Felicity, assumed I'd miss.

Looking at my partners, I said, "I've gotta go." I hurried to my feet, adding, "Everly's graduating from elementary school today, and I need to get there before the bitch says I told ya so for not making it."

Murphy walked up to me, squeezed my shoulder, and then shoved me toward the stairway leading to the alley, saying, "Go watch your daughter graduate. Those kids are proud of those accomplishments and how their parents are in the crowd watching them get that important paper, letting them know they're allowed to move on to secondary school. We've got everything from here. Tell Everly we said hello and congratulations."

"I will." If she'll even talk to me. "Let the boss know I had to run."

I hurried down the building's emergency stairs and rushed to my SUV, which was parked a block down the street.

The second I turned the key, I yanked the shifter into drive and sped off. I had to hurry home to shower, change, and grab the card and flowers I got for Everly the night before.

Even though my daughter doesn't think much of me, I think the world of her, and I'll do whatever I can to bring a smile to her beautiful, innocent face. Like most women, she's a sucker for flowers, especially peach-colored roses and white lilies.

When I stopped at the flower shop and looked at the available bouquets, relief washed over me when the perfect pastel floral arrangement appeared at the next cooler I stepped to. The florist called it The Southern Peach Rose Bouquet. It was sophisticated, modern-looking, and perfect for a ten-year-old.

The bouquet had all her favorite flowers—peach roses surrounded by white lilies, peach carnations, and greenery that were so perfect in color you'd think they were fake. The flowers also surround a couple of beautiful green echeveria succulents.

And I'm anxious to see her reaction when I hand them to her.

While showering, my phone rang—repeatedly.

Assuming it was Felicity checking to see if I'd tell her I wasn't making it, I let it go to voicemail.

Felicity can kiss my ass. I'm sure she's praying that I won't show, to rub into Everly's face that I'm the worthless father she's made me out to be over the years. She can think whatever she wants; I'm not missing this. I may have missed some of her conferences, school plays, soccer games, and band concerts over the years, but this was one event I was determined not to miss.

Like Murphy said, kids look forward to this event. And I knew she was excited about graduation after overhearing her talking to a friend of hers a few weeks ago.

If I was still dealing with the hostage situation, I know it would've been hard, but I still would've figured out something to avoid missing seeing Everly receive her diploma.

So, to emphasize that Everly meant the world to me and that I was at the graduation event, I sat in the front row after finding an available seat.

Embarrassment instantly hit me when my phone rang as the principal took the stage. I looked at the irritated women on either side of me and apologized, "Sorry, I forgot to turn my ringer off."

I removed my phone from my pocket to silence the call. But when I saw it wasn't my ex calling and that it had been Marla calling me the entire time, my finger hovered over the screen. Instead of answering, I tapped the message button and typed out I'm at Everly's graduation. I'll call you when this is done before telling the phone to turn off the ringer.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!!🤞🤞