An assassin made of insects and knives shrieks somewhere in the dilapidated church behind me. I'll deal with that in a minute, for now I need to focus on something even more terrifying: a man with a rifle. Moments before, he'd landed a headshot on my partner before disappearing back into the treeline. We think he was alone – but you can never be too sure. By now, he could be anywhere, but I'm banking on him being exactly where I would be: cowering in a bush, healing, reloading, and getting ready to emerge again. If he isn't, aiming out the window at this bush will prove very foolish of me. Every passing second, that possibility weighs heavier. Another moment passes, and – there he is, crouch-walking from one bush to another, rifle raised, but not pointed in my direction. I have him dead to rights.
I take the shot.
