The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 505

"There's at least three guys on the deck,"

Cassandra dropped the sarcasm, her eyes scanning the ship below, words flying out like rapid fire.

"One on the aft deck, two at the bow. Wyatt, there's a sniper rifle under your seat."

"Why didn't you say so?!"

Wyatt unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching beneath the seat to yank out a black tactical case. He popped the latches. Inside lay a disassembled sniper rifle.

His expression went dead flat as his hands went to work. Barrel, stock, scope. The metallic clicks echoed cleanly as he assembled the weapon with ruthless efficiency. In under thirty seconds, a fully operational sniper rifle was locked and loaded.

"Can you hold it steady for five seconds?" he asked Cassandra.

"Five seconds? Yeah, I'll give you five. Brace yourself."

She violently yanked the cyclic back. The chopper's nose flared up, and the aircraft hung suspended in mid-air for one terrifying, perfectly still moment.

In that exact second, Wyatt kicked the side door open. The roaring ocean wind tore into the cabin, thrashing his hair wildly. He dropped to one knee at the edge of the open door, bracing the rifle against his leg. Through the crosshairs of the scope, he locked onto the silhouette wielding a submachine gun on the deck.

Exhale.

Pull the trigger.

A muffled crack was instantly swallowed by the deafening roar of the rotors.

On the deck, the guard with the submachine gun jerked violently backward. His weapon flew out of his hands as he collapsed flat onto the steel plates, twitching twice before going completely still.

"Beautiful!" Cassandra cheered.

"Cassandra," Garrison spoke from the co-pilot seat. His voice sliced through the mechanical chaos, chillingly composed. "Put us down."

"Copy that."

*

Grant dropped the chip into his palm, closed his fist, and squeezed.

When he opened his hand, the microchip was shattered into jagged pieces. The razor-sharp edges sliced into his own palm, blood welling up between his fingers, but he didn't even flinch.

He walked over to the porthole, flicking his wrist. The fragments traced a faint arc in the darkness before disappearing into the churning black waves.

He slowly turned around and began walking back toward the bed.

The sharp click of his leather shoes against the metal floor ticked down like a cold, merciless metronome.

"No... no..."

The blood in Sloane's veins turned to absolute ice. She watched the man advance on her step by step. His face was a blank mask, but his eyes were black holes, silently devouring every shred of light in the room.

"Please, stay away..."

"Stay away..."