Scarlett thought about the possibility of never holding a sniper rifle again and despair clawed at her chest. Ignoring the surveillance cameras inside the dark chamber, she marched straight to the display case. With one violent swing of a heavy object, the glass shattered. She reached inside, pulled out the sniper rifle and began assembling it with practiced, instinctive motions.
She knew the security team would need at least five minutes to respond. Those five minutes—this was the final window she would grant herself.
Scarlett raised the weight of the rifle and aimed at the cold, distant moon outside the window. Her finger brushed the trigger by force of habit—then suddenly froze.
Something felt wrong.
She lowered the gun immediately, tearing it apart under the weak light. Her hands moved swiftly, but when her eyes fell on the tampered calibrator, her entire body went rigid. The traces were faint but undeniable.
A shock like lightning ripped through her. She hadn’t missed Victor because she was unsteady. She hadn’t failed out of lack of skill.
No. The gun had already been sabotaged.
The alarm shrieked in the chamber and the door slammed open.