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The lead didn’t come from any of the information found in the files. It wasn’t in the threat assessments, the heavily redacted psychologicalprofiles, or the dramatic speculation about potential black-market buyers. And believe me, I looked into every last one of them.

No, the single little clue came from nothing more than a simple power grid report.

Every city Lazarus was rumored to have passed through had one thing in common: a brief, unexplained power surge nearby. Not a blackout. Not enough to draw attention. Just eleven minutes of abnormal activity. Then it vanished.

Most analysts would’ve ignored it. But the type of equipment he’s running needs power. A lot of it. You don’t move high-tech gear around without it leaving a mark somewhere.

Ghosts don’t leave fingerprints, but they do leave footprints on the grid.

I’d overlaid the last three confirmed movements with the power data. Three spikes. Three cities. All within a tight one-mile radius of where Lazarus had last been rumored to surface. From there, I followed the crumbs, giving me the exact location of his last thirty movements. It told me exactly what I needed to know: Lazarus is a man of habit.

He likes comfort and familiarity, and because of that, he has perfectly rotated through the same six locations, each one perfectly aligned, and never stepping out of routine. And the next move is due tonight.

If he follows his regular rotation, which I know he will, the next move will put him directly in a remote industrial area in Nevada. Thekind of place swarming with abandoned warehouses and forgotten rail lines. Sparse population with minimal surveillance. Easy to control. Easy to disappear from.

Figuring out exactly which warehouse he utilizes is the problem. But when it’s such a remote location, I’m willing to bet the convoy of blacked-out SUVs kicking up a cloud of dust behind them might be a little clue.

The jet touches down on a private strip in Nevada, and before I know it, I’m unloading all my weapons into the back of my rental car and racing through the desert.

The drive is long and silent, the Nevada desert swallowing the sound of my engine as the last of the daylight disappears, dropping me into a type of darkness I hadn’t anticipated. In LA, it’s never truly dark. There’s always some form of light streaming through the windows. It’s everywhere—streetlamps, neighboring homes, cars—but out here in the desert, you’re truly alone.

By the time I reach the industrial area, the world feels stripped down to nothing but gravel, rusted metal, and cold air. The warehouse sits alone against the darkness, a single block of corrugated steel surrounded by overgrown dead weeds, cracked concrete, and twelve-foot electric fences.

There are no neighboring buildings, no passing traffic, and nowitnesses. Exactly the kind of place someone like Lazarus needs.

Getting close isn’t an option with this one.

The file was clear, and nothing more than an active warning for any contractor who took on the job. He comes fully equipped with rotating security, ex-special forces with military-grade training.

I might be good at what I do, but I’m not moronic, and my ego knows exactly when it’s time to take a backseat. If I go inside that warehouse, I don’t only lose the advantage, I’ll be outnumbered and easily lose my life. There’s no question about it. So, I do the only thing I can do in this situation and take a page out of Raiden’s book.

Distance. Elevation. Patience.

I’m gonna snipe that motherfucker’s ass right into a shallow grave. And unfortunately for my exceptional morals, I’m going to have to film it. Considering the type of operation Lazarus is running, even if I were to take out every last guard in the warehouse, an alarm would be triggered, and before I could even send confirmation of his death, the body would be gone. And if I intend on getting paid, I’m going to need all the proof I can get.

After doing a thorough check of the surroundings, I position myself on a low ridge overlooking the warehouse, settling into the gravel before setting up my rifle. The air is dry, wind barely a factor tonight. I check the scope, calibrate for distance, and slow my breathing until the world fades away, leaving nothing but me, the scope, and the warehouse.

I scoff. Raiden would be so proud. This is a setup even he would envy.

Though I doubt I’ll ever get the chance to tell him about it. I’m sure he’ll hear about it through the grapevine and always wonder if itwas me. But it’s not the same as getting to tell him myself, getting to brag about being the best sharpshooter in the country, just to watch as he attempts to keep a straight face, not wanting to ruin my moment by throwing down some kind of challenge.

I set up my camera, and despite there being no sign of Lazarus yet, I hit record and settle in for what I can only assume will be a late night.

As expected, it’s close to midnight when headlights appear in the distance—two small beams cutting across the desert before growing larger and brighter. I watch him through my scope, tracking his every movement.

It’s a blacked-out SUV with dark tint, making it impossible to see inside, and I keep my rifle trained on the driver, watching and waiting for any shot I can take to finish this.

The SUV rolls up the dirt road without hesitation, gravel crunching under its tires and sending up plumes of dust behind it, only pausing as it reaches the twelve-foot security fences.

The gates screech open just enough for the SUV to sneak inside, and before they’ve even finished opening all the way, they’re closed again.

My position gives me the perfect view over the fencing, and now that they’ve barricaded themselves inside, it’s nothing but a hunting party, picking them off one by one until I have Lazarus under my scope.

I don’t love collateral damage. I never have. I prefer clean hits—one target, one pull of the trigger, and the job is done.But in certain cases, collateral can’t be helped. Survival will always win for me. It’s my optimal goal, even if it means walking away before completing the job.

The desert cools fast, leaving the chill to seep into my forearms and shoulders as I hold steady. The SUV continues right up to the main entrance of the warehouse and heads straight inside, leaving me blind.

An hour passes, and the warehouse remains still, almost as though it’s taunting me, and despite the way my muscles burn, I don’t move an inch, determined to see this through.