The General thought he was safe. He was surrounded by three rings of guards, inside a fortified compound, deep within the jungle. He was celebrating his coup with vodka and loud music.
One mile away, buried under six inches of mud and rotting leaves, the Wolf stopped breathing.
Through the scope of "The Gavel," the General’s head was the size of a grape. The wind was howling, the rain was torrential, and the shot was impossible.
For the Wolf, it was Tuesday.
"Windage, three clicks left,"
The Wolf whispered to himself. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together. "Elevation, two clicks. Send it."
CRACK-THUMP.
The sound of the high-caliber round tearing through the air was swallowed by the thunder. A mile away, the General’s vodka bottle shattered, along with the back of his chair. The coup was over.
The Wolf didn't move. He didn't pack up. He waited.
Panic erupted in the compound. Searchlights swept the jungle. Mortars started firing blindly into the trees.
That’s when the madness took him. Most snipers stay silent. Most professionals vanish. But the Wolf wasn't just a sniper; he was a message.
He rose from the mud, a hulking silhouette against the lightning. He tilted his head back, exposing the thick cords of his neck to the rain, and he let it out.
"RAAAAAAAUUUUGGGHHH!"
It wasn't a human sound. It was the sound of a werewolf caught in a bear trap. A primal, screaming release of pure violence and trauma. It cut through the rain, echoing off the valley walls.
In the compound below, the guards froze. They knew that sound.
"He's here!"
a guard screamed, dropping his rifle. "The Wolf is here!"
The Wolf laughed—a wet, hacking sound—and racked the bolt of his rifle.
"One down,"
he muttered, his eyes wide and vibrating with adrenaline. "Who wants to be second?"
He didn't run. He advanced. He walked down the hill toward the army of terrified men, screaming into the dark, ready to finish the job.