Dean lay prone in the snow, further out from his initial position of fire. He scooped up a small handful of snow and shoved it into his mouth.
Between the chilling cold of the snow and his balaclava, his breath produced no visible signature while he gazed down the optic mounted to the top of his weapon's railed dust cover.
The red chevron mounted straight in the center of his target's back. His finger rested heavily on the bow of the trigger, waiting for the slightest sign of movement. And then it came….
A man lying in the snow, roughly 100 meters out reached slowly, groaning as he tried to grab his rifle.
The chug of the burst echoed across the battlefield, the target's arm went limp as the kinetic force transferred into his torso jerking it slightly before settling still.
