16. Sniper
sixteen
Sniper
The Cerbat Mountains didn’t hide anything—not if you knew how to look.
Even in the dead of night, with no moon, the outline of every ridge and draw hung in the air like the echo of a punch that hadn’t landed yet.
I took the access road with the headlights off, just the running lights glowing faintly in the dirt haze.
It was so quiet up here, my own breathing sounded like wind.
My hands felt big on the handlebars, too big, like if I gripped any harder, the chrome would tear and I’d drive off the edge of the world.
The only thing I loved more than riding was Jasmine.
The first rule of surveillance was always kill the engine two hundred yards out, even if you think there’s no one to hear.
The gravel crunched under the tires, a slow-motion pop of grit, like chewing ice in church.
I rolled to a stop on the flat, just shy of the rise where the land leveled out and the house waited.
You could see the whole shelf from here.
The property wasn’t old, but the house had that prefab look you get when some investor wants to hide money in the middle of nowhere.
The walls were beige, aluminum siding, maybe two years faded.
All the windows were dark. A single porch bulb glowed at the front, yellow and weak, and you could tell no one ever used the patio because the dust on the railing was undisturbed.
If anyone was home, they didn’t want visitors.
The van was parked with the nose toward the drop-off, so if you floored it in reverse you’d be on the main road in under three seconds.
Ford Transit, high roof, white. The logo was a wrap, mostly peeled and sun-bleached: “PSYCHO BURGERS” in red spray paint font, with a cartoon cow that looked like it’d just watched its own family get made into dinner.
There was a streak of dried mud on the left side and a dent in the rear quarter panel.
I clocked the last three of the plate. They matched Bruiser’s printout, same as the photo on the DMV registry.
Every point on my grid, right in front of me.
I palmed my sidearm, not out of fear but because you never wanted to be the one scrambling for hardware after the noise started.
The grip was slick from years of sweat and solvent, but it fit my hand like a handshake you’d never forget.
I checked the slide—loaded, chambered, safety off.
I holstered it at the small of my back and zipped the vest over.
The cut sat tight on my chest, the patches a little heavier with the knowledge of where I was and what this meant.
I ran a palm down the front of the vest, feeling the thread count, every ridge and scar in the leather.
There was a kind of dark you only get out here, the dark that made it feel like every second was an hour.
I took it slow on the walk up, boots silent on the packed dirt, eyes moving ahead and to the sides, never at the door itself.
You wanted to see what hid in the corners.
The air tasted of nothing; even the sage had gone dormant for the night.
I took a knee ten yards off the porch, just at the edge of the wan light.
The house was so still it might have been a painting.
There was no dog. No motion sensor. The front door had a digital keypad, but the paint was chipped off the “5” and “8,” which meant those were in the code.
The windows were double-paned, with no screens, and the sills were freshly caulked.
Someone cared, just not in the way normal people do.
I waited there, listening. The mountains amplify everything. In the silence I heard a faint clink, not metal but glass—maybe a fridge, or a bottle in the trash bin settling into place. Nothing more.
I took the steps two at a time, the wood flexing but not groaning. The porch was bare except for a wire basket full of fake flowers and a welcome mat that said “Go Away” in novelty font. I respected that. I stopped with my boots at the edge of the mat, squared my shoulders, and rang the bell.
Inside, a light flicked on. Not overhead, but off to the left, maybe a lamp or a kitchen fixture.
I saw the shadow of a man on the far wall—tall, lean, with a posture that didn’t quite line up with the cliché.
He stood straight but not stiff, like he expected company and didn’t care who it was.
The knob turned. The door opened the bare minimum.
He wore a plain black T-shirt, dark jeans, no shoes. His eyes were dark and alert, but the kind of alert that’s bored until something worth seeing shows up. He looked at me, then past me, and then back to my face.
“Can I help you?” he said. Calm, no edge.
I gave him the full name, no MC title, just the legal: “Marcus Jackson. Looking for someone who might’ve come through here.”
He didn’t flinch. “You a cop?”
“No,” I said. “But I answer their calls.”
He studied my vest, the patch, the colors. He didn’t give a shit, but he wanted me to think he did. I admired the play.
“I run the burger place out of Kingman,” he said. “You want a sandwich; I’ve got the grill still hot. Otherwise, I’m off shift.”
I nodded at the van. “You’re Adam?”
He gave a small, polite shrug. “That’s me.”
I held up the photo, folded so it only showed Jasmine’s face. “Looking for my wife. Jasmine. Last seen outside Hualapai Peak, two weeks back.”
He looked at the photo for a second, then longer. “She a biker?”
“Better than one,” I said. “She’s not afraid of anything.”
He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened a notch. “Yeah, I’ve seen her. Used to come in for the jalapeno fries. Always tipped.”
My heart hitched, but I kept my face neutral. “You've seen her since the twelfth?”
He leaned against the frame, resting a knuckle on his chin. “No. I’d remember.”
I believed him, but I believed a lot of things that turned out to be bullshit. I let the silence fill the porch.
He said, “If she comes by, you want me to tell her you’re looking?”
I shook my head. “No. I want to know if you see anything off. You’re up here alone?”
“Just me. My stepsister and her kid, sometimes. But they’re gone tonight.”
His tone made it sound like he didn’t care if I believed him or not.
I said, “Mind if I check the van? Just routine.”
He nodded, stepped aside, and gestured at it like a game show model. “Help yourself. No bodies in the freezer.”
I walked over, slow and deliberate, watching for the angle—back doors locked, passenger window down an inch.
I shined a penlight in: empty trays, a cooler, a crate of napkins.
Nothing to see. I circled once, checking for drag marks or anything that said “help me” written in fingernail scrapes, but the van was cleaner than most.
I stood with my back to the house, looking up at the stars. The world out here was big enough to swallow anything, even a voice.
Adam called out, “You want a drink? I got water, soda, or the cheap beer.”
I said, “No, thanks,” and walked back to the porch.
He watched me. “You got a number I can call if she turns up?”
I gave him the club line. He typed it into his phone, not breaking eye contact.
I said, “You ever see anything weird up here? Anyone on the property that didn’t belong?”
He considered, then shook his head. “Sometimes people park on the overlook for the view. But no one stays. It’s not the kind of place you get lost in.”
I looked at the porch bulb, the way the light pooled on the concrete. “I guess not.”
He let the silence stretch, then said, “You ever lose anyone before?”
I didn’t answer.
He said, “You will.”
I let that sit, then nodded once and turned to go. My boots made no sound on the steps.
Halfway to my bike, I stopped and looked back. He was still standing in the doorway, shadow tall on the wall behind him, arms folded like he was waiting for the next thing.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I kept walking. When I reached the bike, I sat and just watched the house for a full minute.
No lights changed. No curtains twitched. The world was silent, except for the far-off whine of a coyote or maybe just the wind carving a new story in the dirt.
I put the bike in gear and rolled away. In the rearview, the porch light shrank until it was a pinprick, then nothing at all.
On the drive down, I replayed every word, every breath. I thought of Jasmine, the way she always said she hated the cold, the way she’d shiver but never admit she was freezing.
I thought about the look on Adam’s face, the way he never blinked.
And I thought about what came next.
You don’t go up a mountain at midnight and come back empty.
Tomorrow, I’d come again.
***
It started the way every bad memory starts: with a door and a handshake.
He opened the door before my knuckle even hit the wood—Adam, wearing the same black t-shirt as the night before, like he’d spent the last eight hours standing in the same spot.
He was barefoot again, feet pale against the synthetic welcome mat, eyes clear and ready.
There was no hesitation. No last-minute check for the neighbor’s lights, or the quick scan down my arms to see if I was carrying.
If he knew what I was, he knew how to act for me.
He smiled. Not too wide, not the used car lot special, just enough to say, You caught me at a bad time, but you’re welcome anyway. The kind of smile you give when you know you have nothing to hide, or at least nothing you’ll ever have to answer for.
“Morning,” he said, and the word came out full, not clipped or rushed. The voice of a man who did his vocal warmups every morning just in case someone important stopped by.
I said, “Sorry to show up unannounced again.” I put out my hand, giving him the option.
He shook it. The shake wasn’t strong, but it lingered, as if he wanted to learn everything about me by the way my knuckles set and my thumb pressed in. He let go a half second after he should have, then leaned on the jamb with one hand, body canted so I had to look around him to see inside.