“Grab me a box of ammo, John,” she growled, lugging the big gun outside. “And I need a spotter!”

“A what?” John asked, bewildered as he grabbed a box of fifty-caliber ammo.

“Got you covered.”

They both turned, surprised by a SWAT officer grabbing a scope from the van and following them. Lyssa just nodded to him as she unfolded the bipod and dropped the rifle on the hood of the truck, ignoring the creepy sizzling sound the enemy weapons made as they tore through the city.

“Can you handle that thing?” the SWAT man asked her, nodding to the big rifle.

“In my sleep. Can you handle that thing?” she countered, nodding to the short spotter’s scope with a smirk on her lips.

“Watch me,” he responded dryly, dropping the scope on its tripod and resting it on the roof of the truck before resting his eye against the scope. “Target, twelve o’clock. Range, one hundred fifty meters.”

“Got it. See anything that looks vital?”

“On that? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Lyssa sighed. “Understood. Taking the shot. Red nodule, joint of the forward leg at the . . . shoulder? Whatever.”

“Roger that.”

She let out her breath, dropping the crosshairs onto the center mass, looking for a spot that wouldn’t slam off on one of the distended legs. She got her sight picture and squeezed the trigger down, trying not to flinch in anticipation of the recoil. The rifle roared, slamming into her shoulder and hammering her back about six inches, scratching the holy hell out of the black paint of the truck.

“Hit,” the SWAT man called. “High and to the right. Adjust your windage and zero the rifle down two notches.”

“Any reaction?” Lyssa asked as she twisted a knob on the scope, eyes flicking to a flag in the distance.

“It looks pissed.”

She looked over the scope, and found that it did, indeed, look pissed. The alien was twisting and turning in place, tearing up the ground like a madman. She slowly grinned. “That’s not pissed, soldier. That’s pain.”

“Roger that. Hit him again?”

“Damn right.” She put her eyes to the scope, adjusting her aim. “Taking the shot.”

“Roger.”

The rifle roared and kicked again, slamming back into her shoulder.

“Hit.”

She re-acquired her sight picture as quickly as she could, dropping the crosshairs on the target again. “Taking the shot.”

“Roger.”

The rifle roared a third time, and she winced this time as she felt a bruise forming on her shoulder. The rifle wasn’t gentle on a big man, and her hundred and thirty pounds was feeling every pound of the weapon’s recoil.

“Hit! Dropped!”

She looked over the scope and saw that the report was right. The alien had gone down after the third round. “Is that a kill?”

“I think so,” the SWAT officer confirmed. “It’s not moving. I think you got it.”

“Good. Next,” she growled, shifting her weapon over. “Lead walker, heading this way.”

“Confirmed,” he told her, looking through the scope. “Range . . . one hundred meters.”