Target.

      "I can't get a steady shot!” I say over comm. “Anybody have any bright ideas?!”

      All of our team in the passenger compartment simply look back to me. Other than Blackjack, they're muscle. Their natural plan is simply to put more rounds into the problem until it goes away. But there's another on the team who isn't in the rear passenger compartment.

      “Jack,” says Scarelli over comms. “I’m going to try something. Access the city’s traffic control system.”

      Blackjack is already searching for it, frantically scrolling through her controls brace. She clicks the PTT fastened to her plate carrier.

      “I have it,” she confirms. There's a short pause before the radio crackles through my ear pro again.

      “I’m taking the next left. Two blocks down I will make a right. Traffic lights. I want you to use them.”

      Even sheltering from a constant hail of fire, I still smile at this plan.

      The growler lurches as our chauffeur yanks the wheel hard left, the open hatch swinging to slap heavily against its open frame, I go to hold it closed but it eludes my grasp and I’m met, again, with rounds sent inches from my nose. I feel the clutch shift as Scarelli grabs gears and the growler’s supercharger screams for blood over the gunfire. Just as commanded, Jack punches vigorously onto the touchscreen of her brace, dictating the flow of traffic like a wizard crafting spells, turning our traffic lights red shortly before we enter each intersection and green for the roads crossing ours. Most drivers seem to notice our hauling through and stop, blaring their horns, but we don't need most.

      We only need a few.

      The SUV struggles to gain on us and position themselves to get shots off, weaving among and around the errant few cars of distracted drivers and steadily falling away from us. Then another intersection, and another. The growler lurches again as Scarelli’s voice, focused and commanding, returns over comm.

      “Blackjack! Emergency lane! As far as you can make it!”

      The operator swipes away at her touch screen, exchanging one menu for another, and highlights a long stretch of road before hitting a button and the left lane illuminates a soft red, beckoning drivers to navigate away from it. Scarelli does not. We reclaim fourth gear coming onto the emergency lane and pull steady as our engine climbs higher toward fifth. The SUV follows, still a ways away from us. I see my opportunity and insert my final mag of steel-copper penetrators before sending the bolt home and rolling into prone in front of the open hatch.

      “Blackjack,” says Scarelli over the radio. “There's an autotram track up ahead in a few blocks. Any activity?”

      Again, she plays with the map before answering, “One dead ahead.”

      “Halt it before it passes but get it ready to use for us.”

      She does as she's ordered to and the unmanned tram creeps to a halt on her screen. The signs on board would be scrolling ‘out of service’ and beckoning its occupants to retrieve all personal items and ferry themselves off.

      Jack calls, “Set!”

      I set my optic to 6× magnification and focus on my respiratory cycle, breathing out slowly and doing my best to ease my heart rate under contact, a talent I’ve acquired over my time professionally pulling triggers. I adjust my legs and ass to pivot my aim and, as my reticle rises in my exhale onto target, I gently squeeze the trigger back, sending a round at the distant vehicle and then steadily releasing pressure until I feel the audible thunk of my trigger reset. Another shot. Another thunk as I see the rear passenger leaning out of the window throw his head back, dropping his submachine gun, and tumbling the rest of the way out into the road before slamming into the back of a halted sedan.

      I readjust my legs to tug my natural point of aim back over and resume my respiratory cycle. The reticle rises but I don't like the placement and I readjust again, my breath feels hot under my visor and it's all I hear under the whistle of the diesel engine.

      “Hit it, Jack!” Crackles the radio.

      “Activation!” She responds.

      The vehicle still approaches, crawling its way closer. Once more, my reticle rises.

      Target.

      Just as the vehicle goes to maneuver away from the coming tram, I let loose a single round and a new hole is made in the windshield just as the vehicle’s driver slips his foot from the gas. There's a sudden jerk of the steering as someone makes for the wheel, too late in an attempt to avoid the obstacle, and they slam directly into the front of the autotram, flipping the vehicle over and then tumbling in a violent disassembly before crashing into a concrete, drainage ditch within the median.

      I flick the fire selector of my rifle back onto safe and return to a kneel, assessing the scene growing ever more distant behind us. “Picture’s clear. Proceed to the drop-off,” I say, grabbing hold of the armored hatch and pulling it shut.