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Most days, officers flowed past her without slowing. A sniper is loud at distance and invisible up close. Today, a pair of dress shoes clicked to a stop.
Maya glanced up, nodded. “Roger, sir.”
He would’ve kept walking if the light hadn’t caught a sliver of enamel on her blouse—one of those small, forgettable rectangles no one notices until they do. He leaned. Read. Blinked.
3,200-METER CONFIRMED.
He read it again as if the numbers might rearrange themselves into something reasonable.
“Soldier,” he said carefully, “that’s not possible. No one makes a shot at that distance.”
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