Utah, Salt Lake City, outskirts.
According to the information Becky had provided, Sokolov owned a small cabin more than a hundred kilometers outside Salt Lake City, nestled in the mountains. His most recent flight record also showed Salt Lake City as the destination.
Becky was a great asset—her intel was extremely thorough. Not only did it include the topography and terrain of the area, but she'd also printed overhead images from Google Earth. Satellite images weren't accessible, but Google Maps worked just fine.
From the aerial view, it was clear: within a five-kilometer radius of the cabin, there were only two other neighbors. In other words, total isolation.
Sokolov's cabin sat on a gentle slope in a mountain valley. Owen and Swagger had been lying prone at a high vantage point for nearly an hour now.
Being a sniper really did require patience. After close to an hour of surveillance, the number of guards around the cabin had increased from three to five. Swagger had even located two hidden sentries.
At the 6 o'clock and 9 o'clock positions, there was one guard each. One more was posted on the roof. The hidden sentries were at the 5 and 8 o'clock positions.
Their weapons were high-grade—each man carried an H&K G36KE. This rifle, developed by HK in the early 1990s, had been adopted by the German Bundeswehr, the Spanish Army, and numerous law enforcement agencies across the world. Owen couldn't determine their origin based on the weapons alone.
The G36K was a carbine variant of the G36—the "K" standing for "karabiner," German for "carbine." The G36KE was an export version, lacking the standard red-dot sight of the original.
Swagger pointed out the hidden sentries to Owen, who finally managed to locate them. Both were concealed under camouflage netting—if it were up to Owen, he might not have found them at all.
What kind of vacation cabin needed this many guards, especially hidden ones? It was obvious: someone was expecting trouble. This was likely a trap.
But even knowing that, they had no choice but to step into it—Sokolov was their only lead.
Owen and Swagger were both draped in camouflage nets—handmade by Swagger himself—covered with dead leaves and grass. To the naked eye, they blended seamlessly into the terrain.
As long as they stayed still, they were virtually invisible. Even someone walking nearby might not spot them.
"I'm going in…"
Wearing full camouflage, Owen quietly descended the slope with an HK416 slung on his back. Swagger nodded.
Between the two of them, Owen was the close-quarters expert; Swagger, the sniper. It was the perfect pairing of near and far. As Owen disappeared downhill, Swagger lowered his binoculars and raised his sniper rifle.
After half a day of observation, he was fully confident—only these five men were guarding the area. No more. It was the kind of certainty that came from being a seasoned sniper. Even a professional sniper's camouflage couldn't escape his eye.
"Comms check, comms check…"
"Loud and clear."
Through the Leupold Mark 4 M1 scope of his sniper rifle, Swagger saw Owen give a subtle "OK" hand signal from beneath his camo netting, then silently moved forward.
Swagger chambered a round. His weapon of choice this time was a Remington 700 bolt-action rifle. Slower rate of fire, yes—but exceptional precision.
Introduced in 1962, the Remington 700 had long been praised for its accuracy and power. It was widely regarded as one of the most powerful bolt-action rifles in the world.
Last night, Owen and Swagger had robbed a gun store in Salt Lake City. All their gear had come from there. Owen had chosen the familiar HK416 and a suppressed P226. Swagger had gone with the Remington 700.
Swagger moved his gaze from Owen to his palm, opening it to test wind speed. A few blades of grass fluttered away in the mountain breeze.
"Wind speed: three miles per hour. Direct wind. Correction angle: 4.5. Adjusting three mils…"
Swagger called out data while turning the knobs on his scope. The clicks were quiet but distinct.
The Remington 700's adjustment knobs were long and ribbed for grip—designed to be used even while wearing heavy gloves, making it ideal for cold climates. It had been Swagger's go-to weapon during Arctic missions.
Through his scope, Swagger cycled between Owen and the sentries, making sure Owen stayed covered at all times. That was the sniper's role.
Owen silently crept toward the hidden sentry at the 8 o'clock position. The man didn't suspect a thing. The 9 o'clock sentry passed nearby during patrol, so timing had to be precise—Owen had to eliminate the hidden one before the patroller got too close.
Timing was everything. Usually, patrols didn't know the location of hidden sentries, so as long as the body was concealed, the death would go unnoticed.
"Three, two, one—go."
With limited visibility, Owen relied on Swagger's overwatch. As Swagger gave the signal, Owen's P226 let off a muffled pop. A bloom of red appeared two meters to his left.
One down.
"The sentry at 9 o'clock will pass your position in three seconds…"
Swagger locked his crosshairs onto that guard—Owen's backup plan if something went wrong. Killing him would blow the whole operation, so it had to be avoided if possible.
Owen crawled forward, lying flat atop the hidden sentry's body. The camo netting over him blended seamlessly into the terrain. The patrolling sentry arrived just then, glanced around casually, and continued on.
A minute later, the guard returned. This time, Owen didn't need Swagger's cue—none of the other guards had line of sight.
"Puff, puff." Two silenced shots, and the patroller went down. Owen dragged the body back, covered it with the camo netting, and made sure no trace was left.
Since they didn't know the guards' comms frequency, Owen had to act fast.
He crawled back a bit and entered a drainage ditch, sprinting through the low-lying terrain out of sight.
As Owen dashed through the ditch, a figure emerged on the northern slope. A woman in camo, face bare of paint, carrying a sniper rifle. She crept silently behind a large boulder.
She set up her rifle and began scanning the area through her scope. If Owen saw her, he would instantly recognize her—it was Janet.
After confirming her surroundings, she began closely observing the cabin.
"Stop."
Swagger's voice came through Owen's earpiece. Owen froze, eyes locked upward. Seconds later, footsteps approached—one of the guards had changed his patrol route.
The steps got closer. Owen pressed against the ditch wall, P226 tight in his grip. He didn't know why the guard had changed course, but it didn't seem to be his fault.
The SIG-SAUER P226, a Swiss-made classic from the 1980s, was a favorite among special forces and field agents, despite its higher cost compared to the Beretta 92F. Owen had specifically picked it because he knew Jack Bauer favored it.
The footsteps stopped directly above. The guard stood right there.
Then… the sound of water dripping.
That bastard was pissing on him.
"Hahaha, Owen, I feel for you. Damn, this guy's packing," Swagger joked over the earpiece.
Owen had no choice but to endure it. What could he do?
…
On the northern slope, Janet heard everything in her earpiece—the banter between the two men. Somehow, she had tapped into their comms.
Hearing the conversation, she quickly located Owen's position. There was only one urinating guard, so Owen had to be near him. But where was Swagger?
If Swagger could see Owen well enough to make jokes, he had to be in visual range. Janet carefully scanned several possible directions—but came up empty.
She combed through the area again. Still nothing. Either Swagger was hiding too well—or she was looking in the wrong place.
…
The stream stopped. The rustle of clothing. Footsteps fading away.
Owen cursed silently, stepped around the puddle, and continued through the ditch. He soon reached the planned location.
Ahead was the last hidden sentry. The urinating bastard was patrolling, back turned.
The guard on the roof was also watching this direction—so Owen waited. Then the rooftop guard turned away.
"Puff puff."
Another silenced kill. Owen used the camo net to cover the body and crept forward.
The urinator hadn't noticed a thing. Owen stepped in close—two quick shots to the back of the head. The man collapsed. Owen covered him with the net.
Janet had seen it all through her scope. But her real target wasn't Owen—it was Swagger. And Swagger still hadn't shown himself.
Owen didn't know another uninvited guest had arrived on the battlefield. He dropped back into the ditch and sprinted toward the cabin.
The ditch didn't go all the way. At its end, Owen had to run exposed.
"Three, two, one—go."
Swagger tracked his pace through the scope, locking onto the rooftop guard.
As Owen crouched past the side of the cabin, Swagger fired. The rooftop guard dropped. Owen caught the falling body and hid it behind a pile of firewood.
Five kills—mission complete.
He waited behind the woodpile. Everything inside the cabin remained quiet. No one had noticed.
Owen reloaded his P226 and crept toward the entrance, slipping inside.
From the northern slope, Janet had seen the rooftop kill. From the trajectory, she finally triangulated Swagger's approximate position. She didn't have the exact location yet—but it was enough.
Owen pushed the door open with one hand, P226 in the other, ready to fire. The cabin was silent. Like a cat, he glided room to room—empty.
His gaze turned upstairs. The wooden steps didn't creak. Owen moved up soundlessly.
Only one room at the end of the hall had any noise.
He crept to the door. Inside, Sokolov sat in a wheelchair, disassembling a massive sniper rifle—clearly an anti-materiel weapon.
"Took care of the two outside?"
"Four, including the one on the roof—five total."
Sokolov didn't seem surprised by Owen's arrival. But hearing his voice, he raised his head, a little puzzled. "I thought Swagger would come in person…"
"He's not exactly free right now. But he can hear everything we say."
Owen pointed to his collar mic. Sokolov nodded and resumed assembling the rifle.
"My baby. My finest piece. Do you recognize it?"
He spoke like he was talking about a lover, his eyes full of tenderness.
Owen said nothing. Sokolov went on as if to himself, "Barrett M82A3. .50-caliber anti-materiel sniper rifle."
Still no reaction from Owen. He didn't care about sniper rifles.
Sokolov didn't mind. "The M82 series is one of the most widely used heavy-caliber sniper rifles today. The A3 is the Marine Corps variant of the A1. The Army uses the M82A1M. Main difference is the Picatinny rail replacing the original mount. Bolt-action…"
His hands moved quickly, and soon the scattered parts became a complete sniper rifle. He picked up a .50 caliber round to chamber it—but Owen aimed his gun at him. He stopped reluctantly.
"I don't care about your guns. I want to know—did you kill the archbishop?"
"What if I say I know nothing?"
"Then I'll go ask someone else."
"…Fine. I did it."
"Why frame Swagger?"
"No reason. They just needed a scapegoat. In that situation, everyone would assume the real target was the presidential candidate—that the archbishop was collateral. If Swagger died, no one would ever know the truth."
"What's the truth? Who is Isaac Johnson?"
"I don't know. Same as Swagger—I was just a tool. But I know Johnson is definitely military. Probably some kind of black-ops handler."
"What happened in Ethiopia? What was worth risking everything to silence the archbishop?"
"Hahaha…"
Sokolov suddenly burst out laughing.
"What else? Money, of course. They wanted to build an oil pipeline in Ethiopia. But the ignorant locals refused to move—they didn't want to leave their homes and their gods.
So Isaac Johnson killed the entire village. Over 400 bodies buried in one pit—men, women, children, elderly. After that, the rest of the villages moved quietly…"
Horrific images formed in Owen's mind—women and children slaughtered and dumped in a mass grave. The same scene took shape in Swagger and Janet's minds as they listened.
Janet was so shaken she forgot to look for Swagger. Then Swagger's voice came through the mic: "Owen, they're coming. You're surrounded. They're closing in from every direction."
Through his scope, he saw teams advancing on the cabin from all sides. Janet saw it too—she sensed that Swagger's hiding place was about to be discovered.
Owen turned to Sokolov, who calmly said, "I'm sorry. I have to keep you here until they arrive. A lie won't hold you long."
"Puff puff."
Two shots to the forehead. Sokolov slumped in the wheelchair, dead.
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