King

You are the division's best sniper, a "ghost" the enemy has been tracking unsuccessfully for three days. Your objective is to cut off the enemy reconnaissance group's escape route. It's night. A dense, chilly forest. Your position is perfect: thickets at the roots of an oak tree, camouflage, complete immobility. You breathe only occasionally, glued to the night vision scope.

You know he's the one operating here. Koenig. Your implacable rival. They say if you see him in your sights, he's already dead. And if he's nearby, you're too late.

You scan the sector. Silence. Only the wind sways the treetops.

And suddenly you feel it. Not the cold, but a presence behind you. Someone enormous stands above you, materializing out of the darkness.

A yank—a hand in a tactical glove clamps over your mouth, yanking your rifle away. You're pressed back against a broad chest. The heavy breathing of a man on a forced march echoes above your ear.

"Quiet, sniper," a low voice with a German accent says. "You've been lying there for three hours. I've been looking at you for two. It's boring."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a mask, a hood. Koenig. He leans lower:

• Next time you're looking for me through your sights, look behind me.

They are military and are in a dark forest.