Two things happened immediately, both of which I expected, followed by one I didn’t.

Firstly, guards came boiling out of the manor like ants from a nest that a child stomped on. They couldn’t yet see what was going on, thanks to Cora’s shroud, but it’s not hard to mistake a rifle shot for anything else, assuming you’ve been shot at before.

Secondly, the guards started dropping like flies, if you’ll allow me to switch insects for the sake of metaphor. I don’t know a whole lot about illusion magic, but from what Cora had explained, it sounded a lot like her shroud was more like a sheet of glass in a river than an invisibility cloak. It split the light coming towards them, made it flow around them, and would rejoin once it had passed. Meanwhile, they were faced with a two dimensional image to either side of the shroud, a window pane through which they could see and engage, though aiming through the distorted image took practice.

From my perspective through the thermal scope, there was a slight haze, but I could see clearly as Cora’s revolver spat lines of white fire. I was reminded of the old Westerns I watched with my dad as a kid. She never seemed to aim, but she never seemed to miss, either, and her gun never ran dry. Edgar had explained something about the heat from the burning powder and the kinetic energy from the recoil powering runes that regenerated ammo, but I had no idea how that was supposed to work.

Speaking of Edgar, he was running a Benelli M4, a semiautomatic shotgun favored by military and law enforcement the world over for its rapid fire reliability. His shotgun had the same treatment, apparently, since he never once stopped to reload.

What I hadn’t expected was the directionless blue haze that took the place of the dark of night when the bulb was destroyed. Suddenly there were no shadows. The front of the manor was painted flat in shades of blue and black, bright enough to see, but with no contrast to provide depth perception.

“What the hell?” I yelped. “Are you guys seeing this?”

“A little busy right now,” Cora shot back into her radio, the agitation clear even over the throat mic.

“That’s normal, kid,” Edgar said. “Just focus on killing, I’ll explain later.”

I swore under my breath and turned my rifle towards the unfolding brawl. At least things still looked normal under IR.

Even with the cover of the shroud, there were too many guards for Cora and Edgar to handle by themselves. Over a dozen guards had rushed out the door, and while they managed to kill the first six or seven before the others could react, it didn’t take long before they wised up and took cover. And now even more guards were firing from windows on both the first and second floor, and others seemed to be rushing towards the third.

The Hunters were experienced enough to hold the bad guys outside at bay. They’d taken cover behind a large, ornate fountain, and were pouring fire into the house. But it wouldn’t be long before the guards on the upper floors took notice of where the fire was coming from, whether they could see it or not. I had to stop them before they could, and so I went to work.

A sharpshooter doesn’t get to feel the rush of battle, not like your average grunt. My job isn’t to get shot at. If anyone knows where I’m at, I’ve done something horribly wrong. My job is to stay cool, calm, and collected; to pick off any targets of opportunity; and to provide real time intelligence to grunts too high on adrenaline to be aware of anything not immediately in front of them.

My rifle barked twice in quick succession as my crosshairs centered on the chest of an enemy. As soon as it was clear he was down, I moved onto the next target, and the next, working my way across the building from left to right, and focusing on the top floor first.

When you get right down to it, killing isn’t all that hard, once you pop your cherry. If you read books or watch movies about war, everyone’s always going on about how it tears you up inside, how the act of taking a life irrevocably changes you.

Maybe that’s true for the sorts of folks who go on to write books and movies about how awful war is, I don’t know. All I can tell you is, I never lost a wink of sleep over shooting at the guys trying to kill my friends. It’s those times that they succeeded that keep me up at night.

“Third floor clear for now,” I reported. “You guys good?”

“Roger,” Edgar said. “Keep up the pressure. Everything’s going according to plan.”

By now, the front of the house was an absolute mess, covered in bullet holes and spattered blood. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d witnessed such a one-sided slaughter. But, credit where credit was due, they kept on fighting. If someone dropped, their buddy would drag them to safety, and someone else would take their spot on the line. Their fire was random for now, but it was only a matter of time before someone wised up and started hosing down any potential places an attacker might be hiding. Something had to give.

Suddenly, warm light bathed the rooftop, pushing back the blue haze. Someone had opened a door, and several guards poured out in a defensive formation around a large man who moved as though he was in shock.

“Squirters,” I reported. “Rooftop. Six guards, plus apparent VIP.”

“Engage,” Edgar ordered.

This was it, the moment we’d been waiting for. I slotted a fresh magazine into my weapon as quickly as possible, blinked the stinging smoke from my eyes, and drew a bead on the formation.