The Hazing Tower by Leland Roys Page B

running down the hill. Hunter could see lights below, coming from a small town in the valley, close to the agency site. He had been there a couple of times; agents tried not to show themselves much — rumors travel fast.
    He took off running as fast as he could. He could see the man or woman now, and was starting to gain ground.
    He was almost on the shooter when they both reached the unseen cliff in the dark and fell. They flew down and rolled; he lost count of how many times. He tried to tuck up like his training had taught him, over and over. They reached the bottom together, both up and running without any pause. This person was clearly trained, in no way a novice. Hunter saw the shooter closely as they got back up: a man, maybe in this twenties.

    Hunter’s leg shot with pain, but he had no time for that now. It was slowing him down as he chased the shooter to a local grocery store, a place Hunter recalled from his few visits to the town. He closed in. The man turned to fire — and Hunter ran into him with full force. Run at them like they are not there. If you think they’re in front of you, the brain instinctively will slow you down for impact. You have to imagine as hard as you can that you are running through a ghost.
    The store’s window glass shattered like a thunderstorm as the two men crashed through the huge window. Hunter stumbled back up, noticing he was covered in blood. He wasn’t sure and didn’t care if it was his. He fell back down again on the glass and tried to focus. He grabbed his leg pistol and prepared to shoot.
    “Stop!” I’ll kill her! You know I will, Hunter.”
    Hunter stood up and quickly took in the situation. The shooter had a hostage, probably a cashier from what she was wearing. The shooter’s gun was at the woman’s head.
    “You know that is not going to happen,” Hunter warned the shooter. “You know my name; that means you know what I do for a living. I’m not going to lower my weapon.”
    The scene went quiet, except for the soft crying of the hostage. She was in shock, her face white as snow.
    “Hey,” Hunter shouted, “Your own men killed your buddy back there, in the car. You really want to work for someone like that?”
    POP. The shooter’s head was gone. The woman survived only because she was shorter than him. Hunter recognized what had happened. Another sniper had taken the guy out. Was it CIA? He didn’t think so. They don’t operate like that. That wasn’t their protocol.
    Everyone in the store now was screaming, crying, running.
    “Get the hell down! Everyone down!” Hunter shouted.

    He took cover behind some rice bags and thought about it. He had no choice. He ran back out through the now open glass, weaving back and forth while scanning the area. POP! POP! Shells from another sniper hit around him. He dropped down behind a car. Hunter’s hearing had mostly returned now, but there was no sound, meaning the sniper was probably very far off; even with a silencer he should have heard something.
    He then heard the familiar sound of a helicopter. It was there in seconds. The spotlights lit up the store parking lot like it was daytime. Then two, then three helicopters. It was his men, from the agency.
    He took one of the choppers back to the main site. Leonard and Jeremy were both found dead, each in the trunk of his car. He was numbed by the news. They were good men, family men. He felt his anger growing, seething inside him. It was his fault, and he clearly had stepped on someone’s toes — someone who was willing to kill without hesitation.

    Hunter arrived back at the main center, his head still reeling from the news of his two best men. He had loved them like brothers.
    The room was a mess. Too many people, he didn’t like it; he had an ominous feeling about this. Someone had clearly had access from the inside.
    “Sir, can we clear it out a bit in here? I think...” He stopped talking as his eye caught something. One of the forensic women slid a