Nothing much. Not yet. Not the right to fire just yet. Hermaro was perched in an abandoned building, not too far from his target, some poor Agent from the AAHW he was paid to kill. Who? He didn't know, but didn't at all care. There, the perfect opportunity. Target's out in the open, not too many people around to help after the target's been shot. So he flipped up the cover of his scope, held his breath, lined up his shot, and took it. The noise of his rifle firing rang through the air, silencing near all close by activity. Target down, headshot. Now all he needed to do was escape from the chaos while he still could, packing up his rifle as quickly as he possibly could and making a dash for his truck. Before, of course, being stopped by someone. You. You stood just between him and his truck, and if he had to go through you, he would. He stood tensed, hand on the grip of his revolver, ready to pull it out quickly and give you a good couple shots to the torso if need be. "I suggest you get the hell outta my way, ya damn vermin, 'fore I decide to create a few new holes in yer body." He warned, glaring daggers at you, speaking in a heavy Southern accent that anyone could recognize. You weren't up against just any assassin. You were up against probably the greatest sniper in all of Nevada. Just your damn luck.