Sniper on the Roof
The gunshot bursting from the archives was not a single round.
Bang-bang-bang! Bang! Bang—!
As chilling rapid fire echoed down the cramped third-floor corridor, I hitched the leather sling of my Type 91 rifle tight over my right shoulder. Grabbing the black leather briefcase seized from that scummy accounting clerk moments ago, I kicked past the emergency stairway threshold and hurled myself onto the third floor.
The center of the corridor opened up with railings overlooking the first-floor lobby, but the quality of the air had shifted completely. In place of crisp paper and ink, stinging gunpowder smoke and tear-inducing dust choked the hall, blurring my vision into a haze.
“Halt right there! Drop your weapons!”
A guard’s frantic shout came alongside handgun rounds sparking violently across the walls. Amidst the swirling screen of smoke, the heavy oak doors of the eastern Finance Section main archives violently shattered outward.
Glass burst in an ear-splitting crash as a man clad in grey work overalls tumbled out into the hall. He had a maintenance worker cap from the ARC building pulled low and a tool belt slung around his waist, but cradled against his chest was no pipe wrench—it was a military rifle with a sawed-off barrel.
An undercover infiltrator?!
The mechanic impersonator wasted no time raising his muzzle the second his eyes met mine. On pure instinct, I ducked low and threw myself behind a marble corridor pillar.
Bang!
Powdered stone peppered my cheek in a sharp spray. The man clearly had no intention of engaging in an extended firefight; smashing the butt of his rifle into the massive pane of glass at the end of the hall, he seized an emergency rope running down to the courtyard and rappelled out of sight like lightning.
And right after that—
Hiss— Crack—!
The ceiling heating pipes ruptured. They must have planted explosives. Scalding steam and dust poured down, completely blinding the corridor. I couldn't even get my eyes open before I choked on an involuntary breath. Shit.
“Gah… the steam valve…!”
Lieutenant Havel coughed violently, clutching the wall as blood dripped from his shoulder. And tearing through that wall of white vapor came a massive silhouette far exceeding human proportions, thundering forward with heavy stomps.
It was a hulking orc warrior nearly two meters tall. Ahead of him surged a solid steel tower shield covering him from scalp to knee, while his right hand wielded an aggressively sawed-off shotgun.
Boom—!
The shotgun spat fire, blasting dozens of lead pellets that chewed the corridor pillar to ribbons. One of the guards was flung through the air by the monstrous momentum of the shield, tumbling across the floor. Hunkering behind his iron wall, the orc barreled in with the momentum to crush Lieutenant Havel into paste.
In that split second, a chill arc of silver cleaved the air, slicing clean through the acrid smoke and billowing steam.
It was Irina Weiss.
The skirts of her ink-black longcoat fanned out like immense wings, her floor-length black hair trailing behind her like a dark comet. Irina didn’t attempt to batter the shield head-on. Sweeping her massive two-handed greatsword upward in a rotational diagonal slash, she bit directly into the upper edge of the steel plate.
Claaang— Shatter!
A deafening shriek erupted as thick steel plate sheared apart like flimsy veneer. In a single continuous stroke, Irina's greatsword cleaved through the shield, bisecting the orc's thick collarbone, ribcage, and heavy spine along a clean diagonal line.
Before the orc's massive bulk could even register the halt in momentum, the two halves slipped apart and crashed heavily to the floor. The stench of blood surged outward, thick and sickening amidst the hot steam.
Fragments of the broken shield clattered against the floor. Beyond the smoke, approaching footsteps came to an abrupt halt. Through the shattered doorframe of the Security Section, a familiar scarred face stepped into view—a man in his forties draped in a grey overcoat.
That face... Captain Kaspar Lentz!
It was the very face printed in a corner of the facility's censored military history textbooks under the 'Defense of Karsk.' The jagged scar carving across his left cheek matched the photograph to perfection. He had a revolver gripped in his right hand, while his left clamped around the scruff of the terrified, ashen-faced Central Branch Security Chief like a meat shield.
Lentz paused upon spotting the orc's cleaved corpse. His eyes darted to the tip of Irina's blade, and he hauled the Security Chief in tighter.
“...Impressive. As expected of a Section Chief from Headquarters Security,” Lentz murmured in a low, gravelly rasp. “Change of plans. Abandon the ledger. We recover the target and pull back east.”
“Wait! If you leave behind my correspondence and the books, what becomes of me—?!” the Security Chief shrieked, but Lentz cracked the butt of his revolver against the back of the man's skull, shutting him up instantly.
Irina took a measured step forward, angling the tip of her greatsword toward the floor.
“Captain Kaspar Lentz. Did you leave the Ministry of War only to lead private mercenaries? Release the hostage and surrender.”
“Surrender was never one of my hobbies.”
Using his hostage as a buffer, Lentz backpedaled toward the eastern freight corridor. Behind him stood a man slinging a field medic's pouch, holding a pair of smoke canisters with the pins already pulled.
I thrust the briefcase into the arms of the officer nearest Havel.
“This is what the accounting clerk was running with. Tie up the three knocked out on the stairs, too!”
Shouldering my rifle, I pressed tight against the pillar. Lentz was tucked so snugly behind the Security Chief that I couldn't get a clean angle.
Just then—
Crack—!
A heavy, large-caliber sniper round punched through the exterior corridor window. The marble floor inches from Irina’s boots exploded in a crater of stone shrapnel. Across the way, from a fourth-story window of a red-brick building, the telescopic lens of a rifle scope caught the light.
A sniper!
“Point B. Ninety seconds.”
The moment Lentz barked the code word, the medic behind him slammed two black smoke canisters onto the corridor floor.
Hsssssh—!
An impenetrable billow of black smoke swallowed the hallway whole.
“The eastern passageway leads straight to the Central Station supply depot!” Lieutenant Havel yelled. “If they slip into the crowds, we’ll never find them!”
Adjusting her grip on her greatsword, Irina plunged into the smoke.
“Tend to the wounded, Lieutenant! I shall pursue Lentz!”
I glared at the sniper's window across the courtyard and pulled the Type 91 tight into my shoulder pocket. If that sniper was left unchecked, Chief Irina would take a bullet through the back of her head the moment she broke into the open ground.
“Chief, I’ve got the sniper! Don't let Lentz get away!”
“Be careful, Sonya!”
The instant I saw Irina vanish down the far end of the corridor, I sprinted flat out toward the shattered window in the archives. As I launched myself out through the archive frame, a violent crack split the air beside my ear.
Bang—!
“Guh!”
The edge of the window frame disintegrated, slapping my cheek with red brick dust. A high-velocity slug chewed through the wood a mere two inches from the courtyard escape rope I had been aiming for, ricocheting off the ceiling inside with a shrill whine.
Suppression fire. By the time I instinctively tucked my neck, my body was already hurtling through open air.
Oh, come on!
Mid-fall, my left hand shot out and snatched the dangling rope. Swallowing the blistering friction that burned across my palm, I kicked hard off the brick facade. Like a pendulum, my body swung through the empty air, rocketing toward the second-floor awning of the red-brick building opposite.
The Type 91 slung on my back screeched against masonry. In that split second, I jerked my head up and caught the rattle of a window snapping shut—a flutter of dark cloth vanishing inside. Not the fourth floor where the first shot had come from, but the fifth-floor roof access, one level higher.
They already shifted positions?!
I didn’t have the luxury of a gentle touchdown on the awning. Huddling tight while gripping the rope, I drove both boots together straight through the closed glass window of the second floor.
Crash!
I tumbled across the office floor in a shower of broken glass. Chairs toppled; loose paper rained down across my face. The revolver at my waist clattered hard against the floorboards, but checking for damage would have to wait. Flattening my spine against the concrete wall below the sill, I strained my ears.
Bang! Bang!
Two heavy gunshots cracked in quick succession from down below, near the courtyard and the eastern freight line junction. It sounded like Kaspar Lentz’s outfit hadn’t completely cleared the premises yet. With Section Chief Irina on their tail, their time on the ground was running out fast.
That sniper isn’t here for me.
They’d headed up. From the rooftop, they’d have an unobstructed line of sight over the eastern rail line. They were moving to cover Lentz’s withdrawal.
Like hell I’m letting you!
I shifted the Type 91 rifle into both hands. Four rounds in the internal magazine, one in the chamber. Five shots left in total.
Kicking open the office door, I charged up the stairs. Third floor, fourth floor. At every landing, my rifle led the way around the corner. Clear. Taking a brief beat on the landing to steady my breath, I felt the burn already knotting in my thighs.
The heavy iron fire door leading to the fifth-floor roof hung ajar by three finger-widths. Through the narrow gap drifted the biting winter wind and a faint waft of burnt powder. Rather than grabbing the handle, I nudged the door open with the muzzle of my Type 91.
Screeech.
No shot came. Before crossing the threshold, I ran a rapid visual sweep of the rooftop layout. Three red-brick chimneys jutted up through grey slate, a massive cylindrical iron water tank sat dead center, and a waist-high perimeter parapet hemmed in the edge. To the left ran a narrow metal catwalk bridging the gap to the adjoining building's roof.
From the alleyway far below, Lentz’s harsh bark drifted faintly on the wind:
“Get the carriage moving! Cut toward the telegraph office!”
Crouching below the parapet, I stole a glance over the lip. Near the eastern exit, a black carriage was backing out while Lentz dragged the Security Chief down the exterior steps by his collar. Right on their heels flashed the ink-black wake of Irina’s longcoat as she darted behind a stone pillar.
And right then, something glinted through the steel stilts supporting the water tank.
Black leather gloves resting a heavy precision rifle atop the girder, braced against a laminated stock. The dark muzzle was leveled squarely at the crown of Irina’s head down below.
Not on my watch!
I didn't have a scope. Planting the Type 91 atop the parapet, I lined up the iron sights through the narrow gap between the water tank's leg and frame, and squeezed the trigger.
Crack—!
An orange spark flared off the iron support, punching a deep dent into the steel. Jolted off line, the sniper's barrel kicked upward; the discharged slug detonated masonry high above the pillar where Irina was taking cover.
The sniper didn't panic. Tucking into a tight roll, they vanished behind the bulk of the water tank.
Clack-clack.
Working the bolt, I flipped out the steaming spent casing and chambered the next round. Four rounds left.
I dashed toward the water tank, but my target was already scampering across the metal catwalk. A dart behind a chimney, and then they dropped below the parapet line.
The problem was that catwalk. There wasn't an inch of cover on it. The second I set foot on that bridge, whoever was hiding behind the opposite chimney would punch a hole through my forehead in less than a heartbeat. If I turned around and took the stairs to pursue from ground level, it’d take at least two minutes—plenty of time for Lentz to board that carriage and vanish into the Belok outskirts.
If I can’t cross the catwalk...
I glanced over the gap between the buildings. Roughly four meters of empty air. The alleyway below was a dizzying drop, while the zinc gutter of the opposite roof jutted out diagonally, about a meter lower than my current ledge.
Crack!
A bullet screamed from behind the chimney, punching straight through the railing at the entrance of the catwalk. A preemptive shot cutting off my approach before I’d even poked my head out. Right behind the gunshot came the crisp metallic rasp of a bolt being cycled.
The bolt was open. Now.
“Hup!”
Cinching the rifle sling tight against my chest, I took three paces back. Then, grinding my boots against the roof gravel, I sprinted and hurled myself not toward the catwalk, but out into the empty air to the left.
A four-meter leap into nothingness.
Belatedly, the sniper's muzzle swung around to track me flying through the sky. With a loud crack!, a bullet shredded the empty space beneath my boots, but the lead was already way off.
Crunch!
Both my hands clamped onto the zinc gutter of the far building. My whole body slammed violently against the brick wall, the wooden stock of my rifle digging hard into my ribs. The breath was knocked clean out of my lungs, but using the brute leverage of a ten-year veteran augmented human, I hauled upward. Channeling pure explosive output through my shoulders and lats, I kicked off the wall and vaulted smoothly up onto the roof.
Tucking into a roll across the slates, I pinned myself behind a chimney.
“Haaah... haaah...”
My right fingers shuddered from the instantaneous surge of overloaded power, my lungs heaving for air. I clenched and opened my fist twice, willing the tremors in my nerves to settle.
Keep this up, and my joints are going to turn to powder.
Near the chimney where the sniper had been lying in wait, not a single spent brass casing remained. The moment they saw my leap succeed, they’d abandoned the post and relocated once again.
I crept east along the gentle slope of the roof, carefully treading only where the slates were nailed over rafters to avoid any telltale crunch. As I reached the roof's eastern edge, the Central Station’s eastern water tower and elevated coal trestle came into view.
The sniper was prone on the catwalk ringing the middle tier of the water tower, barrel still trained on Section Chief Irina below.
Dropping to one knee, I brought the Type 91 into my shoulder. The sniper’s torso was shielded behind a thick structural beam; landing a center-mass hit was out of the question. My target had to be the thin steel handrail supporting the rifle.
The instant the sniper’s right shoulder bunched to take the shot, I pulled the trigger first.
Crack—!
My second round. The bullet smashed into the railing, caving the metal inward. Stripped of its rest, the sniper’s barrel lurched downward; their almost simultaneous discharge tore past Irina and punched clean through the corner of the carriage roof below.
Even now, the sniper didn’t turn to engage me. Hugging the rifle close, they slid down the maintenance ladder and took cover behind a network of boiler steam pipes on the far side.
Clack-clack.
Out popped the second empty casing. Three rounds left: one in the chamber, two in the magazine.
Flanking around, I skirted the lower roof of the coal staging platform. Fine black grit crunched and shifted beneath the soles of my boots. Right then, a heavy steam locomotive on the Central Station mainline let loose an ear-splitting whistle.
HOOOOOOOO—!
Under cover of that roaring blast, I spotted the sniper through the gap in the pipes, setting down the long rifle and drawing a sidearm. It was leveled right at the stairwell entrance. They were planning to fire under the cover of the whistle.
Just as that trigger finger began to squeeze—!
I bypassed the steps completely, vaulting over the railing to burst out from the side.
Bang!
The bullet grazed past a few strands of my platinum hair, whistling into the open air. Hooking my left boot into the iron rungs, I levered my torso up and, without even bothering to shoulder the rifle, clamped the Type 91’s stock under my right arm and snapped off a hip shot.
Crack—!
My third shot! The slug hit dead-on against the high-pressure brass steam pipe running flush beside the sniper’s cover.
SHHHRRRRR—!
Scalding, high-pressure steam and jagged brass shrapnel erupted in a furious tempest. Shrapnel and superheated vapor tore across the back of the sniper's gun hand, sending the pistol flying across the deck.
I vaulted onto the catwalk through the vapor screen. There were two rounds left in the gun, but with an opponent charging right into grappling distance, there was no time to cycle the bolt.
Swish!
Parting the cloud of steam, a woman burst forth—a human female in her early thirties. Sweat-slicked brown hair clung to her forehead in short, jagged cuts. Even with blood dripping from her mangled right hand, she lunged with a combat trench knife held in a reverse grip in her left, driving straight for my jugular.
Clang!
I brought the Type 91 up vertically, catching the blade against the barrel. Sparks showered, leaving a pale scratch along the blued steel. She didn’t waste effort trying to overpower me with the knife. The instant steel met steel, she rolled her wrist, deflecting my rifle outward, and kicked her right boot violently into the back of my right knee.
“Urk...!”
My leg buckled, my vision plummeting. The dagger descended toward my collarbone in a vicious diagonal plunge. I shoved the Type 91 up horizontally.
Thwack!
The tip of the blade bit half an inch into the walnut stock before coming to an abrupt halt, snagging on the high-carbon steel reinforcement spine nested inside the wood. Old Man Bram, you really are a master craftsman!
Gripping the rifle with both hands, I threw my entire weight into a twist. With the blade embedded, the wrenching torque twisted her wrist backward. Rather than letting go, she drove her body inward, snapping an elbow toward my temple. Ducking under the strike, I rammed my shoulder into her sternum.
Crash!
The metal railing groaned and bent outward with a violent shriek. Even as the wind was driven from her lungs, she seized my collar and drove a knee into my ribs.
Thump!
As a jolt of pain flared through my ribs, loosening my grip, she yanked the blade free and slashed toward my throat.
Slash!
I threw up my left arm to guard my neck. The coat sleeve shredded, a shallow line of flesh opening on my forearm. The instant the edge glanced past my skin, my right hand snapped shut around her wrist like an iron vise.
Crack!
The brute force of a ten-year augmented human unleashed. Overwhelmed by the agony of twisting carpals, her fingers splayed open, and the trench knife plummeted down into the dizzying depths below.
She tried to scrape her heel down my shin in a frantic kick, but I pivoted on my hips and slammed her full body down against the iron grating.
Slam!
Even after taking that brutal impact to her back, she tried to roll onto her feet. Giving her zero breathing room, I slipped behind her back and swept her heel with my left boot, knocking her flat. Laying the Type 91 flat, I wedged the thick walnut stock deep under her chin, locking it against the front of her throat.
“Hup!”
I seized both ends of the rifle and hauled backward. She clawed frantically at my forearms. Pulled flush against my chest, her boots kicked helplessly in the air. She clawed at the rifle with her injured hand and drove her elbows into my ribs again and again, but I dropped my hips and clamped down with crushing leverage.
Five seconds... ten seconds. Her thrashing weakened, then stopped. I released the choke immediately. The woman lay still.
Easing the rifle away, I laid her flat on the catwalk and pressed two fingers to her carotid artery. There was a pulse. She was alive. Once I verified she was breathing steadily, I set to work securing her.
“Whew...”
Wiping a smear of blood from my lip, I crouched before the unconscious woman. Using a pocketknife, I sliced off the leather sling from her discarded sniper rifle near the steam pipe, binding both her wrists tightly behind her back. Then I pulled the laces from her combat boots to tie her ankles together.
And then came the real business: looting.
Just look at this gorgeous silhouette...
I picked up the long rifle resting on the grating. It was the very legendary firearm that held the highest place of honor inside the glass display case back at Old Man Bram’s gun shop.
◈ Caliber: 7.62×51mm
◈ Features: Free-floating heavy barrel, adjustable laminated stock, folding bipod
◈ Optics: 3–10× Variable Telescopic Sight
A free-floating heavy barrel that never touched the forend, a high-grade laminated wood stock with an adjustable cheek rest, a folding bipod, and mounted gloriously on top, a 3–10× variable telescopic sight.
I hit the magazine release and pulled out the 10-round box magazine. Two live rounds remained.
Prying loose the leather pouch attached to her waist belt yielded two spare magazines fully loaded with ten rounds apiece. 7.62×51mm tungsten-core armor-piercing rounds, identifiable by their black-painted tips. Twenty-two rounds in total.
The dimensions are completely different from the rimmed 7.62×54mmR cartridges for my Type 91, so the ammo isn't cross-compatible. Guess that means I have to take the rifle and the magazines as a package deal.
Unbuckling her leather belt, I looped it through the R98’s sling swivels to make a makeshift sling. I slung the R98 across my right shoulder and snapped the ammunition pouch securely to the back of my own belt.
I picked up the compact semi-automatic pistol lying beneath the steam pipes, cleared the chamber, and shoved it into my coat pocket alongside its magazine. A compact military first-aid kit, acquired. The folding binoculars would just weigh me down, so I coolly tossed them aside.
Having completely stripped the prize, I racked the bolt of the Type 91 back and slammed it home.
Clack.
Now we’re talking.
One loaded in the chamber, one in the internal magazine. Two rounds remaining.
Poking my head over the water tower rail, I gazed down into the alleyway. Three or four City Guard officers were sprinting in, completely out of breath.
“Hey! Guard officers!”
I banged on the rail as I shouted down, and the guards jerked their heads up in unison.
“I tied up the sniper on the catwalk! She’s still breathing, so take her in for interrogation!”
Rifle in hand and the R98 strapped across my back, I caught the ladder and slid down toward the eastern ground walkway.
The Section Chief was still fighting down below. No rest for the wicked.