The rifle kicked against Elias’s shoulder. In the silence of the high altitude, the sound felt like the mountain itself was fracturing. The bullet tore through the air, a silver needle threading through the blizzard.
A mile away, Volkov’s snowmobile jerked mid-air. The figure slumped, the machine spiraling into the dark abyss of the crevasse. The remaining guards scrambled, firing blindly into the white void, but Elias was already gone—sliding down the reverse slope on his skis, a shadow merging back into the winter.
The wind howled across the jagged peaks of the Swiss Alps, a relentless, icy gale that threatened to rip the breath from Elias’s lungs. He lay flat against the frozen ridge, his white ghillie suit making him invisible against the pristine powder. Below, the narrow mountain pass shimmered under the moonlight—the only route for the high-priority target escaping toward the border.
"Target in sight," he whispered into his comms, the sound barely a flicker against the storm.
Elias wasn't just a marksman; he was a phantom of the peaks. In his world, gravity was as much a weapon as his .338 Lapua.
