Recognizing too late that the threat lay behind them in the woods, he tried to turn, but a second controlled series of shots took him in the upper chest, with the last round drifting upward and striking him dead between the eyes. The man’s momentum kept him turning, and he collapsed like a ballerina performing a pirouette, sinking to the grass in a lifeless corkscrew.

Right between the running lights. Good kill. His detached mind appreciated the skill, but a part of him was sickened. He’d just killed six men within the last ten minutes. This doesn’t feel like retirement. This was why he’d left the job. That, and your team leader was a bastard, but who’s counting?

Zack leapt up and bounded over the fallen tree, pushing forward as fast as possible to get to the Hawkinses’ home. Within seconds, he emerged from the wood line at full speed, sprinting between the two corpses toward his objective.

His left ankle was suddenly pulled backward with enough force to cause a catastrophic fall, but his upper body kept moving. His left foot came free of the obstacle, but it was enough to send him face-first onto his own lawn. He turned to the left to absorb the impending impact and realized with horror what had tripped him. The first gunman is still alive. You only hit him in the torso. He’s got a vest. They all do, dumbass.

Zack would’ve excoriated any of his former teammates for such a rookie mistake, as almost all operating forces worldwide wore some kind of protective Kevlar. Even bad guys were smart enough to wear vests.

He hit the ground with a jarring shock but turned to the left, rolling onto his back. The MPX was already muzzle-down as he’d been running, which might’ve been the only thing that saved his life.

Instinctively aware of where the first fallen man lay, Zack adjusted the MPX even before he saw his enemy look up at him. The man’s right arm moved up along his side, a black pistol in his hand.

Zack made eye contact with the man in recognition of his last-ditch effort to save himself, and then he pulled the trigger on the MPX twice. Both rounds struck the man in his forehead, and his head fell limply to the grass, the pistol no longer a threat.

Zack scrambled to his feet and sprinted. Whoever these men were, they’d come prepared. Headshots. They need to all be headshots.

Accepting the new rules of engagement like a clinical tactician, Zack accelerated across the lawn, a dark figure appearing to float from one backyard to the next.

He hit the steps to the Hawkinses’ back deck and ascended as quietly as he could. Unlike his home, theirs didn’t have an enclosed porch, just one long deck that spanned the entire length of the house.