“Just pull it and put the crosshairs on the target, sir.”

Rapp did as he was told. The sniper rifle’s trigger had a game controller feel to it, moving no more than a millimeter before offering a click that he supposed some people considered satisfying. But that was all. No crack of a round leaving the barrel. No recoil or stench of gunpowder. The weapon just sat there.

“I’d be better if I could actually shoot something,” Rapp said as he maintained the crosshairs on a target three thousand meters to the north. The only movement was the slight jiggle every time his heart beat.

“The system’s waiting for the moment when your aim comes together with all the environmental factors, sir. It’s about patience.”

Not Rapp’s long suit, but it was something he’d been working on. The last six months had been about catching up with a life that had gotten out of control. He’d hired a physical therapist who’d taken one look at his X-rays and saw her kids’ college tuition paid for. Which turned out to be money well spent because in less than half a year, she had his aches and pains down to a dull roar. Even better, he now had some data to assess his physical condition and create a realistic strategy for improving it. He’d never perform like he had when he was thirty, but with the right training plan, he wouldn’t be that far off.

And so here he was, familiarizing himself with new technologies that he’d managed to ignore over the last few years. To what end, he wasn’t entirely sure. He’d never met the new president, and the rest of Washington was fully focused on deflecting blame for the grid attack. It was something that Rapp would never understand. At some point, wouldn’t it be easier to just do a competent job than to spend all your time covering your ass?

The kick came from nowhere, accompanied by the muted crack of the round leaving the rifle’s silencer. The baby-faced sergeant peered through his spotting scope and smiled smugly. “Hit.”

Rapp stood and dusted himself off, scanning the men standing around him. Scott Coleman, Joe Maslick, and Bruno McGraw first, but then letting his gaze fall on Charlie Wicker. The incredibly gifted sniper had been part of his core team for years.

“Wick, you’re fired.”

“Shiiiit,” the diminutive Wyoming native said, drawing out the word for a full two seconds. “What happens if there’s sand blowing around? Or it’s raining? Or if someone shoots down one of those fancy drones? Hell, what happens if the target’s moving? They do that sometimes, you know.”

Rapp turned his attention to the man guiding them through all this technology.

“It’s not perfect,” he admitted. “But in the right conditions, it can turn an average sniper into… Well, into Charlie Wicker.”