Case turned his radio dial to frequency 150.50, his thumb hovering over the transmit button. The wind whistled through the jagged rocks of the ridge, the only sound in the oppressive silence of the Mojave night.
"I'm in position," Case whispered into the receiver. "Target is in my sight, eight hundred meters south of HELIOS One, one thousand meters from my position. Target is currently patrolling with four armored opponents. I'm on the ridge. Over."
"Copy that. Joker here," the voice crackled back, sounding far too pleased. "We'll be there in thirty. Keep your eyes peeled and don't pull that trigger until we're in place. Out."
Beside him, Jacob was a shadow among shadows. He had his own scope covered in dark burlap and heavy-duty tape, leaving only a tiny, vertical slit to peer through—a veteran's trick to prevent even the dimmest moonlight from reflecting off the glass and giving away their nest.
Case adjusted the focus on the massive 14.5mm rifle. The T-51b suit was unmistakable under the moon's pale glow, its silhouette larger and more intimidating than the men flanking it. But Jacob was right; the job description hadn't mentioned a squad. The target was walking with four others clad in a mix of salvaged metal plating and reinforced combat armor. They moved with a practiced, leap-frogging rhythm, clutching assault carbines and marksman rifles.
"That ain't right," Jacob muttered, his eyes glued to the slit in his optics. "Bounty said a lone soldier. A ghost. You don't stay a ghost in this desert by hirin' a fan club."
"Maybe they're mercenaries he picked up for protection?" Case suggested, his heart rate climbing as he centered the crosshairs on the thick neck-seal of the T-51b.
"Or maybe he's the one protecting them," Jacob countered. He shifted his weight, the rocks beneath him barely making a sound. "Look at how they move, Case. They aren't hirin' him. They're followin' him. Those are his disciples. If Joker's boys show up thinkin' they're just baggin' one tin man, they're walkin' into a meat grinder."
Case squinted through the scope. One of the armored figures stopped, looking directly toward the ridge. For a terrifying second, Case thought he saw the red glow of a night-vision optic.
"Jacob," Case whispered. "One of them is looking right at us."
"Steady, kid. If he saw us, we'd be dodging Gauss slugs already," Jacob whispered, his voice as calm as a graveyard. He didn't reach for the massive AMR; instead, his hand moved toward his own marksman carbine, just in case things got close and messy. "Slow and steady wins the race. Relax. Don't fight the rifle; let it be an extension of your breath."
"Take your time, kid," the old ghoul added, his eyes never leaving the slit in his taped optics.
Case felt the adrenaline trying to spike, but he forced it down into his stomach. Through the high-magnification scope, the T-51b looked like a mountain of matte-green steel. He weighed the options. A headshot was a guaranteed kill if it hit the visor, but the T-51b's helmet was sloped—a slight angle could cause even a 14.5mm round to ricochet off into the night. A body shot offered a larger target, but even with the tungsten-core AP rounds, the chest plate was the thickest part of the suit.
He decided on the center of mass. If the 14.5mm didn't punch through, the sheer kinetic energy would at least knock the "Ghost" flat and rupture his internal organs.
Case settled into the stock, the cold metal biting into his cheek. He began the ritual of the long-range marksman.
"Jacob," Case whispered, his finger hovering just outside the trigger guard. "Give me the numbers. Distance to target, confirmed?"
"Confirmed. One thousand and twelve meters," Jacob responded instantly, his voice a professional drone.
"Windage?"
"Crosswind from the east, steady at four knots. It'll pick up as the round crosses the canyon floor. Hold two clicks left," Jacob muttered. He was watching the way the dust kicked up near a distant Joshua tree. "Air is dry, temp is dropping. Barometric pressure is steady."
"Elevation?"
"Target is at a lower declination. Angle is negative fifteen degrees. Adjust your drop for gravity, but don't overcompensate. The 14.5 travels flatter than a .50," Jacob cautioned. "Wait for the lull in his stride. He's got a heavy gait; wait for the moment his foot hits the dirt and his torso stabilizes."
Case adjusted the turrets on the scope, the mechanical clicks loud in his ears. He breathed in, halfway out, and held it. The crosshairs settled over the spade emblem on the target's chest. The world narrowed down to the space between the firing pin and the tungsten core.
"Target is stationary," Jacob whispered. "He's checking his Gatling laser. You have the window, Case. On your breath."
Case felt the heartbeat in his fingertips. One second. Two.
"Joker is five minutes out," the radio crackled softly on his hip, threatening to break his concentration.
"Ignore the radio," Jacob hissed. "Focus. Tell me when you're set."
"Ready."
Case held his breath.
The world slowed to a crawl.
Through the scope, the "Ghost" in the T-51b moved in cinematic slow motion. Case could see every detail: the subtle hiss of the hydraulic joints, the way the moonlight slid off the polished green composite, and the slight tremor of the soldier's hand as he adjusted the Gauss rifle on his back.
BOOM.
The 14.5mm rifle didn't just fire; it detonated. The massive muzzle brake slammed a physical shockwave backward, kicking up a cloud of dust that obscured the ridge. The recoil punched into Case's shoulder like a physical assault.
The tungsten-carbide slug tore through the thousand meters of desert air in less than a second. It struck the target squarely in the center of the chest, right where the spade emblem was etched into the steel.
The result wasn't a "hit"—it was an explosion. The T-51b, weighing nearly half-a-ton with the pilot inside, was lifted off its feet and slammed backward into the sand. The composite plating shattered, spiderwebbing outward as the tungsten needle fought its way through the layers of pre-war ceramic and steel.
The roar of the 14.5mm was still bouncing off the canyon walls as Case exhaled, his lungs burning. Through the haze of heat and dust, the carnage was clear. The tungsten slug hadn't just pierced the T-51b; it had treated the legendary armor like a piece of tin foil.
The exit wound was horrific. The round had punched through the chest, tumbled through the interior, and blown a jagged, gaping hole out of the backplate, severing the hydraulic lines and shattering the cooling tubes in a spray of pressurized fluid and dark, arterial blood. The "Ghost" slumped forward, the suit's power failing as the life inside it began to leak into the sand.
"He's done! The mark is hit!" Jacob roared, but he didn't stop moving. He shouldered his marksman carbine, the sleek wood of the stock pressed tight against his rotted cheek. "Don't let the others pin us down! Clear the field, Case!"
Case didn't hesitate. The AMR was a one-trick pony in a skirmish; it was too heavy to swing, too slow to follow a running man. He let the massive rifle drop onto its bipod and whipped his own marksman carbine around
The four companions were scrambling, their professional discipline breaking under the sheer terror of seeing their leader dismantled in a single heartbeat. One tried to dive behind a rusted sedan; Case caught him mid-air. The .223 round took the man in the side of the neck, spinning him into the dirt.
Jacob was a machine beside him. Pop-pop-pop.
The old ghoul really didn't let his age slow him down. He picked the target, didn't even give them a chance to take any cover whatsoever. He picked off a mercenary trying to flank the ridge, the man's combat helmet shattering like a clay pot.
The canyon floor fell into a sudden, suffocating silence, broken only by the distant hum of the HELIOS One solar arrays. One lone survivor was a frantic blur of motion, boots pounding the sand as he scrambled toward the jagged shadows of the perimeter fence.
"Let him go?" Case asked, his voice tight, his lungs burning with the sharp scent of ozone and cordite.
"No, kid," Jacob said, his voice flat and final, devoid of its usual humor. "Hit him. You leave a witness like that alive, he brings back an army. Finish the job."
The 5.56 round whistled through the desert air. It caught the man squarely in the back of the head, snapping his neck forward and dropping him mid-stride. He didn't even slide; he just crumpled into a heap of mismatched armor and desert rags, his momentum spent.
"Clean," Jacob grunted.
But as the distant roar of Joker's truck engines finally began to vibrate through the rock beneath their feet, Case felt a cold pit in his stomach.
"Joker's here," Case muttered, checking the magazine on his carbine.
"Yeah," Jacob said, finally flicking a match. He looked at the massive 14.5mm rifle still resting on its bipod. "Hide the AMR, kid. Throw the camo netting back over it. Joker's the kind of man who gets real greedy when he sees a gun that can punch holes in God. Let's go down there and get paid before he decides he doesn't want to share the loot."