Prologue: The Ghost in the Snow
The black van sat in silence, legally parked along a snow-covered street. Its dark paint blended seamlessly into the shadows. The windows, frosted from the biting cold, seemed like frozen curtains concealing the secrets inside. Snow had stopped falling, but not before leaving a concealing layer over the vehicle. No one would ever notice another forgotten relic in a city that had long since given up on this part of town.
Inside, the shooter lay quietly on a custom-built platform, breath coming slow and steady. Every movement was deliberate, precision and timing were everything. The narrow opening of a modified roof window framed the entrance to a crumbling warehouse two blocks away. The lonely glow of a single streetlamp cast pale light onto the sagging roof and rusted awning above the corroded panels of the dock door. To most, the warehouse was just another decaying monument to the city’s forgotten industrial past—silent and lifeless. But not to Hassan Al-Khatib.
To anyone passing by, it was nothing more than a supply house stocking incense, snacks, and imported goods for local markets. Hidden inside, however, were the horrors Khatib had long since brought to the city. Women - children, it didn’t matter as long as Khatib could get them sold to the highest bidder and out of his building. The shooter had spent weeks studying him—his routines, his movements, his habits. News reports, surveillance data, and court records painted a clear picture of a man who had exploited dozens of lives to line his pockets. Yet, just one failure from a broken justice system was all he needed to walk free with nothing but a smug smirk and a wave to the crowd.
The shooter’s gloved hand moved with precision, lowering the narrow roof window and carefully positioning the Barrett MRAD rifle. The customized suppressor gleamed in the low light, an instrument of silence and death. Through the Vortex Razor HD LHT scope, they studied the warehouse door. The rangefinder clicked softly—230 yards. A routine shot, usually. But tonight’s bitter cold would sap the bullet’s speed, dragging it down just enough to matter. They just needed a slight adjustment on the elevation turret—0.16 MRAD—perfect.
The shooter inhaled deeply, steadying their heartbeat, and scanned the scene. Snow piled high in the parking lot and on the sidewalks, just a faint trail of footprints leading toward the side entrance hinted at anyone being inside. The icy wind screamed down the street, tugging at the plywood covering shattered windows. Trash, once piled neatly for pickup, now danced in the gusts like confetti from a long-forgotten celebration. Most sounds had been swallowed by the storm, except for the lonely wail of a siren in the distance—probably another shooting somewhere else in this godforsaken city. Everything else was still.
The shooter shifted ever so slightly, searching for a bit of comfort on the hard wooden platform. The van was their den—safe, silent, invisible in plain sight, and self-sustaining for days if needed. Years of trial and error had built perfection—there were no excuses for failure anymore. Research, surveillance, execution - simple. Following the plan, every single detail had become second nature, a cold ritual demanding patience and discipline.
The waiting was always the worst part. Time crawled by, moving as if it were molasses being poured in a blizzard. The street remained deserted except for the howl of the wind cutting through the abandoned buildings. A raccoon scurried across the cracked pavement, disappearing into a storm drain. “Weren’t they forest animals?” The shooter thought. Maybe once, before they discovered dumpsters. An old friend used to call them "Trash Pandas"—the thought brought the faintest hint of a smile, there and gone like a ghost.
Off in the distance, the headlights of an occasional car or bus passed by, but nobody ventured down this way. This part of town was long forgotten, a graveyard of rust and neglect.
Then, right on schedule, the dock door creaked open on its weathered, rusted hinges. Hassan stepped into view, shivering in the cold, his breath fogging in the frigid air. He paused, lit a cigarette, and checked his phone—completely unaware that he was already dead.
The shooter exhaled slowly, aligning the crosshairs with the center of Hassan’s chest. They had rehearsed this moment countless times in their mind, every movement calculated down to the millisecond. There would be no appeals tonight. No mistrials. No bribes. No more victims. A suppressed crack. The sound vanished inside the van’s insulated walls, absorbed like a secret. Through the scope, the marksman watched in silence as Hassan crumpled onto the icy pavement. The cigarette slipped from his fingers, hissing as it hit the snow.
No one came rushing to his aid. The warehouse door remained open, exposing the crates and debris inside, but no one came. Somewhere in the bowels of that dilapidated old structure, Hassan’s acquaintances might not have even noticed yet—or maybe they had. Maybe they were already huddled in some dark corner, terrified, waiting, watching, wondering if they were next.
The shooter waited, listening to the silence, watching the dock door knowing that eventually, someone would call the police—maybe. Not out of concern, but because a body in the street draws attention. Hassan’s lifeless body lay still, his phone resting a few feet away in the snow, the screen casting a weak glow. No one would pick it up. No frantic footsteps. No shouts. Just silence.
The shooter needed to close the window before the police arrived but quickly scanned the area through the scope one final time. Snow was falling once again and had already begun to fill in Hassan’s footprints leading from the door. Soon, they’d be gone—erased by nature itself, eliminating one of the only clues to the time of the shooting.
They slid the rifle back into its foam-lined Pelican case and closed the window hatch with a faint click, sealing out the winter air. The faint scent of gunpowder lingered, mingling with the sterile scent of insulation in the van. The shooter leaned back against the platform, exhaling slowly as the tension drained from their muscles—a practiced ritual, as familiar as the shot itself.
The shooter reached for a thermos and took a much-needed sip of coffee laced with bourbon—just enough to knock back the chill of the cold van. They had done their part. Every motion was smooth, practiced, and deliberate, completing in seconds what the courts had failed to do in years.
Climbing down from the platform, the shooter switched on the van’s heater. The power station was one of the van’s most expensive additions, but on nights like this, it proved to be worth every cent. As the warm air began to flow, they leaned back, allowing the weight of the mission to sink into their bones.
The first time, too many years ago to recall, had been the hardest—hands shaking, breath uneven, stomach churning with the significance of what they’d done. The cold sweat, the deafening silence afterward, and the doubt creeping in through every pore. But now, it was different. The process had become a series of precise steps, each one carefully designed to achieve a specific goal. Efficiency over emotion. Logic over doubt.
Damn, that was too easy. When the plan was hatched, it was all about Hassan. Human trafficking infuriated them like nothing else ever had, and when he walked on a ridiculous technicality, his death warrant was signed. While researching Hassan, they were shocked by how many other despicable criminals were escaping punishment for so many different reasons. A list of those who might also be worthy of death began to grow. Could they strike again? Should they strike again? The question lingered for only a moment. After all, justice hadn’t just failed once—it had failed countless times. Someone had to do what the system wouldn’t.
Retrieving a small, worn notebook tucked into a side panel, a list of names, carefully gathered from public records and news reports. Some names had been crossed out, but some were circled in red ink. These were the best targets according to the research. Looking at Hassan’s name, written neatly at the top of the page, a dark line was placed through his name marking the mission’s success.
Would there be another mission? The decision seemed to make itself. The fate of someone on this list has just been sealed. Flipping to the next page, a slightly out-of-focus surveillance photo stared back, a man in a suit, shaking hands with someone just out of frame. Another catastrophic failure of the system. Would it be him?
The shooter returned the notebook to its compartment, there would be time tomorrow to decide. Shivering a little, they took another sip of the spiked coffee. The warmth did little to chase the chill still running through the van, but it was welcomed anyway.
A muffled radio transmission crackled through the police scanner mounted underneath the shooting platform. The shooter smirked, listening to the dispatcher’s calm voice: “112, start for the 900 block of Pruden Avenue on a man down—possible DB. Respond Code 3.”
The shooter removed their gloves, flexing their fingers and allowing the weight of the mission to settle. Police would be arriving soon, and silence was essential. They quickly turned down the scanner and settled into the hammock to catch a little sleep. It would be a long night, so they might as well get comfortable.
The planning for the next target would begin soon, but for now, rest.
The shooter adjusted the blanket, pulled it tight against their chin, and closed their eyes. Somewhere in this city, another predator roamed free, thinking they were untouchable. They wouldn’t be for long.