“It’s time. Get into position. Over.”

“Copy that.” Anika Washington spoke into her comm device.

Go time.

She inhaled a slow breath to steady her thudding heart. Belgrade’s winter air stung her nostrils. Crouched in a corner of the balcony, she stared up at the grayish white sky. The color reminded her of the disgusting synth-milk served at the orphanage where she had grown up.

She lifted into a high squat, making sure to keep her head below the railing. As she stepped forward, her foot slipped on the ice-slick surface. She caught herself from falling.

Focus! No clumsy mistakes. No mistakes period.

She dropped to all fours and crawled forward three meters to her position behind the sniper rifle. Braced on bent elbows, legs stretched out behind her, she was grateful for the insulated unisuit that provided protection from the balcony’s cold marble floor. The barrel of the P4 rested in the V of the squat tripod stand. The semi-automatic rifle was a successor to the M4 carbine rifles popular with the United States military in the first half of the twenty-first century. The upgraded weapon performed better, even in extreme weather conditions. This December day in Serbia qualified. The rifle’s tip poked through the hole in the balcony’s wall. The advance team had positioned the small opening to provide her the best angle and view to do the job.

She gazed through the scope to sight her target. He squatted low outside the ground floor of the government building opposite the luxury residence where she lay prone on the twentieth floor. That meant her target was 1,084 meters’ distance, well within the rifle’s maximum range. His dark profile was outlined against the wall of the building. He stood as still as the granite surface beside him. Inside, his team planted explosives.

“On my order, take out the hostile. Over.” Anika’s team leader, Solomon Nigatu, spoke with practiced authority.

“Copy that.” She hoped he didn’t hear the strain in her voice. Tension coiled around her neck and shoulders.

This would be her first kill. And unlike the sims she had trained on, next-gen e-games where the hostiles were typically masked and hulked out, this man’s face was clearly visible. He looked young—slender, with narrow shoulders and hollow cheeks. Early twenties, she estimated. Her age.

He was actual flesh and blood and bone and muscle. Heart beating. Lungs expanding. Until she fired. One blast, through the temple. Then nothing. Why couldn’t she just tranq him? But that wasn’t her call. Those weren’t her orders. Her orders were to kill.

She had prepared for this moment for so long, first as a new recruit and, more recently, as a Level 1 operative for U.N.I.T, a global counterterrorist organization. She’d thought she was ready to perform in the field. Gianni had said she was ready.

Gianni.

A steel band of anxiety wrapped around her chest. She hadn’t seen him since the night of their first mission together. That had been three months ago. Gianni Brambilla was a Level 3 operative, her trainer, and so much more. What had happened to him? Where was he? Not here, nottelling her that she had to kill a real live human being.

Her target touched his ear comm and shot upright, stance rigid, on alert.

Through her scope, Anika watched his head swivel to complete a sweep of the area. His head nodded, his lips moved. He was confirming it was safe to exit.

“Take out the hostile. Over,” Nigatu said.

Anika firmed her grip on the trigger, inhaled, held her breath. What if the young man hadn’t wanted to join the terrorist group, Serbia First? 

“Shoot him!” Nigatu’s voice sharpened, a knife tip pricking her ear. “Do you copy?”

What if his family had been threatened with death if he refused?

“Takagi, take out Washington’s target.”

Anika opened her mouth. No. I’ve got him. I’ll do it. But the words wouldn’t come. And her finger wouldn’t move.

From her far right, a single bullet rocketed through the air. The young man’s head jerked back from the impact. His body dropped to the ground. Across the courtyard, a similar scenario played out. Another member of her team shot a second watcher. Then more team members took up the positions of the felled terrorists, while others ringed the courtyard’s perimeter, out of sight of the building’s egress point.

Seconds later, the building’s front door handle moved to the open position. Stopped. Takagi, the female operative who had shot Anika’s target, pressed the dead man’s thumb on the button of his comm wristband to issue the all-clear signal. The door opened. Five hostiles emerged. The dozen-strong U.N.I.T. team erupted from the perimeter, surrounded the group, and forced a quick surrender.     

“Washington, report. Over.” Nigatu’s voice boomed in her ear.

Shitshitshit. What could she say? Weapon jammed? The debriefing machines would discredit her. No clear shot? The advance team would disprove it.

What would happen now? Would she be demoted? Lose her new Level 1 privileges? She had gotten used to more freedom, more sleep, more down time.

“Washington, do you copy?” Nigatu said.

Would her punishment be worse than demotion? Anika’s chest tightened. They wouldn’t make her leave, would they? Her childhood wound of rejection throbbed deep inside her. She couldn’t survive being told she wasn’t wanted. Again.

She looked at her right hand, her dominant firing hand. She flexed her fingers, rolled her wrist. In perfect condition. She’d have to change that. Fast.

“I fell. My wrist… it’s broken.” She whimpered the words. “Over.” She waited for the stream of verbal abuse she’d gotten used to in the months of training as a recruit.   

“Fuck,” Nigatu said. “Copy. Get your ass back to Transport. Over.”

“Copy that.” Things were clearly different in the field. Or maybe Nigatu was waiting until he could unload on her face-to-face. She disengaged her ear comm. While she had endured countless bone bruises, even a couple of fractures, during her recruit training, she wasn’t sure she could keep from crying out in pain from what she was about to do. Still, she could handle the physical pain more than the alternative.

The thin layer of ice on the balcony floor glistened in the early morning light. She took a step. The sole of her boot slid on the smooth surface, then stopped. She’d almost forgotten. Body cams. One on her forehead, another behind her right shoulder. Their time recordings would show that she had fallen after she had been given the order to shoot. That wouldn’t work.

She pulled off her camo head gear and smashed it against the marble. Then she twisted her torso away from the building wall and swung back toward it, whip-fast. Her upper back slammed into the wall. Nothing. She tried again. Harder. It took two more tries before she heard the reassuring crack of the camera’s glass eye.

She inhaled another deep breath, gritting her teeth. The sting in her throat, the throbbing in her upper back were nothing compared to what was coming.

She ran forward, hit a slight dip, felt her feet slide out from under her. This time, she didn’t catch herself, but kept falling and stiffened her arm behind her. She landed hard.

Snap.

Sharp pain shot up her wrist to her shoulder. Then, nausea. Short panting breaths streamed through clenched teeth. The pain was much worse than the bruises and fractures from her hand-to-hand fight training. 

Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

She pressed her right toe against the inside sole of her boot to activate the medical patch. The numbing comfort of a pain blocker flooded her system. In seconds, her wrist quieted. Her stomach continued to churn, and she wondered if she could use it to her advantage. If she vomited in the transport vehicle, maybe she’d garner sympathy. No, strike that. This wasn’t the orphanage. This was U.N.I.T., the United Nations Intelligence Trust, the most badass counterterrorism agency on the planet. She’d seem weak as well as incompetent. Standing, she cradled her right arm against her chest, retrieved her weapon, and headed back.