There was a ripple of quiet amusement from somewhere in the gallery.
Rourke tilted his head slightly, as though considering her, though the skepticism in his eyes had been there from the start. “And you expect this tribunal to accept that you were able to identify specific weapon signatures, firing sequences, and tactical movements from that distance?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because she had learned long ago that silence, used correctly, could be more unsettling than any response.
“I saw what I saw,” she said finally.
It wasn’t the answer he wanted.
He exhaled slowly, turning just enough to include the room in his performance. “Of course you did,” he said, the faintest trace of mockery slipping through. “Because apparently, in addition to working at a bait shop on the Oregon coast, you also possess the observational capabilities of a top-tier military sniper.”
A few people laughed. Not loudly, not openly, but enough.
Mara didn’t react.
That, more than anything, seemed to bother him.
He moved toward the side table, pouring himself a glass of water from a clear pitcher. The ice clinked softly, an ordinary sound that felt oddly amplified in the tense air of the courtroom.
