Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

narrowed in with the crosshairs, it was just a flapping tarp.
    The storm rolled into the city a few beats later, and sand blasted Fitz’s fatigues. Garland wasn’t lying when he told him to tighten his ass. The sand got into everything: boots, ears, even ass cracks.
    A quarter mile to the south, First and Second Platoon worked their way through the city clearing buildings one by one. The men were almost to what Fitz called Shitter’s Corner . Most of Fallujah smelled like raw sewage, but it was worse there.
    Fitz couldn’t even see the street now. The storm had kicked up a cloud that filled the entire city. He pressed his eye against the scope of his MK11, cursing the blasted heat and the sting of grit on his sweaty skin.
    Despite the sand storm, today was calmer than normal. No Marines had died, and it was already four in the afternoon. A PFC had been shot in the leg a few hours earlier, but he would survive.
    The roar of the storm grew and Fitz braced himself, clenching every muscle he could. Sand gusted over the roof, pecking at his uniform and rifle. He kept his eye pressed against the scope, scanning for targets. The tarp he had seen earlier tore off the roof and sailed away in the wind.
    Fitz batted sweat away from his eye when he heard the cough of diesel engines. The mechanized unit had finally reached the street below. Above the growl of the storm and the hum of idle engines came the unmistakable crack of an AK-47. Fitz’s senses snapped to full alert as his earpiece hissed to life with the voice of the Platoon Sergeant.
    “Medic! We got sniper fire!”
    “Anyone see the shooter?” This voice was cool and calm. Fitz knew right away it was the LT.
    “Negative, we can’t see shit down here!”
    Fitz focused on his breathing. He couldn’t let his heart rate escalate. It would mess up any potential shot.
    In and out. In and out. You got this, Fitz.
    He searched the rooftops frantically as another crack sounded in the distance.
    “You got anything, Garland?” Fitz whispered.
    “I can’t even see five feet in front of me.”
    A voice rang in Fitz’s earpiece, and he winced at the report of another casualty. Two Marines down.
    The lieutenant’s voice, weakened by static and the piercing whistle of the wind, came back online. “Anyone have a target?”
    “Saw a shot come from the second floor. Al Shifa Hospital,” said the platoon daddy.
    “Light that fucking building up,” the lieutenant replied.
    “Roger.”
    Fitz trained his MK11 in the general direction of the hospital. Through the curtain of sand, he glimpsed the third floor. From his vantage, there were four oval windows.
    Another crack sounded, and sure enough, the flash of a muzzle fired from the fourth window on the second floor. “Medic!” came a voice in Fitz’s earpiece. He held in a breath, zoomed in, adjusted for distance and wind, then waited for a clear shot.
    “Somebody take out that fucking sniper!” the platoon sergeant growled.
    “I don’t see jack shit,” Garland whispered.
    Fitz ignored his spotter and the frantic chatter over the comms. He counted to ten in his head. It always helped calm him, but three Marines were already dying or dead, and this time, the numbers did little to relieve the spike of adrenaline rushing through him.
    Just one clear shot. Just one clear...
    As if in answer, movement in the middle window filled his scope. Past the grit and sand, in a moment of clarity, he made the insurgent sniper holding an AK-47. The scarf had fallen from the shooter’s face, and instead of the bearded man he’d expected, Fitz saw the youthful face of an Iraqi woman. She could have been an innocent teenager.
    Only she wasn’t innocent. She had murdered his brothers.
    The wind settled then, and the gusting sand with it, like divine intervention. “Forgive me, Lord,” Fitz said. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit her in the forehead, blood exploding from the exit wound and painting the hospital room crimson as she