In the quiet of the evening, high above the bustling cityscape, the ex-CIA operative lay prone on the cold rooftop, meticulously assembling his sniper rifle with precise, practiced movements. The only sounds were the soft clicks of the rifle parts fitting together, the occasional crunch as he casually bit into a chip, and the distant hum of traffic below. His demeanor was calm, almost detached, as he reached into his pocket for another chip, savoring the crunch while his eyes remained locked on the luxurious penthouse across the way.
The penthouse was lit warmly, the view inside unobstructed by curtains. Through the scope, he could clearly see his target—a young man, perhaps no older than his early twenties, with an air of entitlement and confidence as he paced around the room, in the midst of an argument with an unseen figure. The operative's face remained impassive, trained not to react. He had been through countless missions, with stakes that made this one look trivial, yet his focus was unwavering. This was no ordinary target. The young man was the son of the Mafia Don—the next in line to inherit his father's brutal empire.
For a moment, he watched the target through the crosshairs, observing the agitated way the young man gestured as he argued. Tyrone's instructions had been clear—no collateral damage, no witnesses, no mistakes. The operative adjusted his grip on the sniper, letting his breathing slow and steady itself. His time in the CIA had taught him many things, but patience was the most valuable lesson of all.
Another crunch of chips as he watched the target move closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn't need to rush. In the operative's world, there was always a precise moment—a single point where opportunity and probability aligned perfectly. When that moment came, he would pull the trigger without hesitation. The young man inside the penthouse had no idea his every move was being watched by the ex-CIA agent, or that his life hung by a thread.
The ex-CIA operative steadied his aim as the young man moved closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows, his figure illuminated against the dim evening backdrop. The operative adjusted his position, ensuring his line of sight was unobstructed, his finger hovering just above the trigger. As he watched, the target's face twisted with anger, clearly agitated with the person on the other end of the argument. His gestures were wild, careless—no hint of caution or fear. He was a young prince in a protected palace, entirely unaware of the hunter lying in wait.
The operative took a slow breath, quieting his mind. Years of training kicked in, instincts taking over, and everything else faded into a narrow focus on the crosshairs lining up with the target. He waited, calculating. The sniper rifle was state-of-the-art, capable of taking down the target without so much as a second shot, but in a city as volatile as this one, even the slightest delay or misstep could attract unwanted attention. Tyrone had given specific orders: leave no loose ends.
Finally, the moment came. The young man paused, his back straightening, his body framed perfectly in the window. The operative tightened his grip, easing his finger over the trigger with careful precision. In his earpiece, a faint crackle buzzed as a voice cut through.
"Status?" Tyrone's voice, sharp and low.
The operative answered without removing his gaze from the scope. "Target's locked. Awaiting final clearance."
A brief pause on the line. "Confirmed," Tyrone said. "Make it clean."
In that instant, the operative's finger moved in a fraction of a second. The gun fired with a muffled pop, the sound dampened by the suppressor. Through the scope, he saw the young man's body jerk before slumping backward, hitting the plush carpet of the penthouse with a thud that no one outside would hear. The argument was over, silenced in an instant.
With practiced ease, the operative disassembled the rifle, methodically placing each piece back into its case. He took a final look across the rooftop, scanning for any signs of unwanted attention. Satisfied, he collected his equipment, slinging the bag over his shoulder before slipping into the stairwell. His exit was as precise as his approach—no trace, no witnesses, just a wisp of presence fading into the night.
As he moved through the shadows, he tapped his earpiece once more. "Target neutralized. Mission complete."
"Good," Tyrone's voice replied, a tone of satisfaction in his words. "Now, let the Don know what it feels like to lose everything."
The operative allowed himself a brief, dark smile before fading into the night, another ghost in Tyrone's arsenal, with no past and no face.
A/N: Wow, this story has come a long way as this is the first time I go past 70 chapters uploaded, Please keep supporting my work and commenting or reviewing, your thoughts are much welcome