The-Infinite-Sea-Pdf

It isn’t fear that will defeat them. Not fear or faith or hope or even love, but rage.
Fuck you, Sullivan said to Vosch. It’s the only part of her story that impressed me. She didn’t cry. She
didn’t pray. She didn’t beg.
She thought it was over, and when it’s over, when the clock has wound to the final second, the time
for crying, praying, and begging is over.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. Saying the words makes me feel better. I say them again, louder. My voice
carries far in the winter air.
A flutter of black wings deep in the trees to my right, the petulant squawking of the crows, and
through my eyepiece, a tiny green dot sparkling among the brown and white.
Found you.
The shot will be tough. Tough, not impossible. I’d never handled a firearm in my life until the enemy
found me hiding in the rest stop outside Cincinnati, brought me to their camp, and placed a rifle in my
hand, at which point the drill sergeant wondered aloud if command had slipped a ringer into the unit.
Six months later, I put a bullet into that man’s heart.
I have a gift.
The fiery green light is coming closer. Maybe he knows I’ve spotted him. It doesn’t matter. I caress
the smooth metal of the trigger and watch the blob of light expand through the eyepiece. Maybe he
thinks he’s out of range or is positioning himself for a better shot.
Doesn’t matter.
It might not be one of Sullivan’s silent assassins. It might be just some poor lost survivor hoping for
rescue.
Doesn’t matter. Only one thing matters anymore.
The risk.