CHAPTER 66 Phillips
Phillips
AIDEN PHILLIPS IS STRETCHED out on an apartment building’s roof a block and a half away from the bombed-out office. No ghillie suit today, just a military-grade camo tarpaulin that blends in with the smooth asphalt surface. He looks like part of the roof.
Through his spotting scope, he takes in the scene—smoke, flashing lights, first responders moving with discipline and purpose.
The bomb did a fair job tearing off a chunk of a corner office of the bland-looking building, but Phillips has seen only two body bags so far.
He shifts under the tarp, picks up his M42 sniper rifle, and slides forward.
He rests on his elbows and peers through the scope.
He gets the blasted building in view, then brings the crosshairs down, down, down until he locks on two people standing in the middle of the water-soaked street.
John Sampson and Anna Rizzo.
One about six foot nine. The other five feet and change.
It would be difficult, but not impossible, to drop them both with one round.
If that was what he wanted to do.
He tightens his grip and flicks on his laser sight.
Time for a little motivational exercise.