Here I Come

I press my lips tightly together, holding back the tears threatening to slip from the corners of my eyes.

An old woman has just finished giving her eulogy—Andy Vaccaro's mother. Her voice trembled as she spoke of her dearest son. After placing a single white rose into the coffin, she stepped back in silence.

Now, one by one, starting from the front row, mourners rise from their benches. Each walks slowly toward the casket to pay their final respects to Andy Vaccaro. The late Andy Vaccaro.

Andy died that night.

The doctors called it a heart attack, but I know better. It was Lily's touch that killed him. I don't know exactly how it works—and even if I did, would anyone believe me?

So I kept my mouth shut and let the hospital declare it what they wanted. Heart attack. Simple. Clean. False.

Now I stand in front of his coffin. The lid is open. I can see Andy's face clearly—still, serene, handsome as ever. Like he's just fallen asleep and might wake up with one of his sarcastic jokes.

"I'm sorry, man…" I whisper, my voice choked and barely audible.

I place the white rose in my hand gently on his chest.

Then I turn away—quickly—and leave the church without looking back.

-

The chirping birds are the only sound in the area.

Well… at least until a buzzing noise cuts through the air. The birds fall silent and scatter in panic, their wings flapping as they flee the disturbing buzz.

"Nope. Still too noisy," I murmur to myself as I lower the drone I've just flown. It's the quietest model available on the market—yet still loud enough to shatter the serenity of this quiet hill.

I need it silenced.

[Bob, can you help me find a mechanic who can make a drone soundless?] I message him.

[Jesus, Boss! Thought you forgot about me—it's been ages.]

I sigh at his reply. [Well, can you help me?] I press again.

[Sure, Boss. Let me get someone ready for you.]

[Don't hurt him!] I reply quickly, remembering Bob's "persuasive" tactics all too well. But then I sigh and add, [Badly.]

[Sure, Boss.] I can practically see the wide grin stretching across his face.

Three days later, back on the same hill.

The birds chirp freely as my drone hovers toward them—silent, smooth.

I smile in satisfaction. Bob's mechanic is the real deal.

My eyes lock on the mini screen embedded in the center of the joystick. The birds remain perched, undisturbed. I press one of two extra buttons—the modifications added by the mechanic. Not only did he reduce the drone's sound, he installed exactly what I asked for.

The button I just pressed brings up a target reticle on the screen and disengages the safety on the drone's plastic rifle. I guide the drone toward a bird. It's dead center in the crosshairs.

I press the second extra button.

A small dart fires, striking the bird's wing. It shrieks in pain, wings flailing, and tumbles from the tree.

"Shit!" I curse, landing the drone quickly before sprinting to the crash site.

The bird is still there—twitching, chirping in agony.

I kneel and pick it up carefully. Its wing is bleeding. It chirps at me again—soft, broken. I swear its eyes are tearing up.

I sigh, tuck it gently into my pocket, and carry it back to my tent. My first aid kit is inside.

While tending to the bird, my mind drifts—planning.

The drone is ready.

I'm not.

I may be good at sniping, but aiming at a target through a shaky drone screen is another level. I need to practice. A lot. I need precision. Because if I miss—there will be no second chance.

I still haven't regained my powers. So I have to rely on the skill I know best: sniping.

At first, I was set on going straight to headquarters. After all, that's where Lily is. And I know Jennifer is there too. But barging into HQ without knowing their layout or strength is suicide.

This is the headquarters of an organization capable of creating mutants. Their security system is bound to be more advanced—and more lethal—than the Pentagon's. In my current condition, I doubt I could even make it past the gate alive.

So I'm taking a detour.

I plan to ambush the Rauss house.

Even though he's a General now, Mr. Rauss still lives in the same house—my childhood home. Security has increased, but only by doubling the number of personnel guarding it.

My biggest obstacle will be my master.

His senses are dangerously sharp—he'll sense any threat from miles away. That means I need to neutralize him from a distance—well beyond his detection range. We're talking at least a couple of miles, minimum.

That's why I need practice.

Precise, unforgiving, silent practice.

-

After nearly a week of nonstop practice, I'm finally ready to execute the plan.

I'm fully confident in my drone-sniping skills now.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same for long-range sniping—at least not from two miles away.

It's not about my skill. It's about the equipment.

I couldn't get my hands on a rifle—within my budget or connections—that could shoot accurately beyond a mile. The best result I've achieved with the best weapon I could afford is a solid hit from one and a half miles.

But that's not far enough.

So I'm taking the risk anyway.

I've chosen a vantage point exactly two miles from General Rauss' house—a small hilltop behind a forest I used to walk past on my way to school. It's the only place that gives me the angle I need to fly the drone and line up a shot on my master.

The residences here are widely spaced. Each property separated by vast yards, especially Rauss' home. His left and right neighbors have been deliberately left vacant for "security reasons."

Good. Fewer obstacles for me.

7:00 AM.

Three cars pull out in a neat motorcade from Rauss' front gate.

That means the house is lighter now—probably only eight guards remaining. Nine, including my master.

I grip the joystick and launch the drone, sending it straight toward the rear of the house. Three guards are stationed there, standing near the back fence—backs turned to me.

I line up the first one, aim for the neck, and fire.

He drops instantly. The others are too far to hear him fall.

I pivot the drone toward the remaining two. They're close together—this one needs to be fast.

I fire. One dart pierces the second guard's neck.

The third guard barely starts turning—his mouth opening in surprise—before I shoot again.

He crumples to the ground, unconscious.

I swing the drone around the side of the house. A black dog rushes out of its kennel, barking madly at the drone.

A guard steps out to investigate the noise.

I shoot him.

But I didn't see the second guard behind him.

The second man watches his teammate collapse, then immediately raises his long gun and fires.

I dodge the shot, then fire back—hit his arm.

He grunts in pain.

I shoot again—this time hitting his neck. He goes down.

The gunfire's sure to alert the rest of the team.

I hide the drone among the branches of a tall tree and watch.

Three more guards arrive on the scene, rifles drawn, eyes sharp.

They're well-trained—methodical. They fan out, sweeping the area with precision. One moves toward my drone's hiding spot.

I take the shot.

He screams as he collapses, and the other two immediately whirl around.

They weren't expecting a drone.

Their moment of shock gives me the edge—I hit one before he can react.

The last one fires—but again, I dodge the bullet, then hit him square in the chest.

He drops.

But the moment I down the final guard, something goes wrong.

The drone jerks.

Its altitude drops sharply.

I've lost control.

My eyes lock on the screen. The feed goes shaky. Then—

A tall, lean figure steps into view.

My master.

He frowns deeply as he crouches and picks up the drone from the ground.

I don't wait.

I race to my long-range rifle, already set up nearby. I swing it into position and aim through the surveillance lens.

He's inspecting the drone. His back is to me.

I can't shoot him in the back. There are too many bones—too few vital organs. I don't want to kill him. I just need to paralyze him.

So I wait.

My heart pounds.

Even after regulating my breathing, the adrenaline won't subside.

"Come on... come on... calm down," I whisper to myself. A jittery trigger finger is death for a sniper. I learned that from the best: my father.

My master drops the drone. It lands in the dirt beside him.

He straightens up.

Arms slightly stretched at his sides.

He's sensing something.

Even from this distance, I subconsciously hold my breath.

He stands still for a few minutes.

Then—he relaxes.

Arms drop.

He turns.

Now.

I inhale deeply… then slowly exhale.

At the end of the breath, I squeeze the trigger.

The bullet slices through the air.

A second later—it hits.

Right in his stomach.

He gasps, mouth open in pain. His body jerks back as he clutches the bloody spot with one hand… then collapses to the ground.