Past Targets
Autumn Twilight Links
Twilight:2000 Links
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There is a soft pattering of rain that is coming from a small storm front that moved in from the west about two hours ago. It causes me the slightest inconvenience, I hate being wet but I have been wet before and must shrug it off. The limb that supports me is attached to an oak that is at least three hundred years old. The top of the tree sways slightly with the wind that the storm has brought in. The wind will cause a slight deviation of the bullet's trajectory, so I swivel the gun a hair from its original placement. Master Chief Deckard once told me that wind is my most feared enemy, it can change a sure kill into a SNAFU just as quickly as you can say "jump". Therefore this becomes a war against the elements, constantly changing the position of the rifle and hoping that the wind stays its course and does not change to suddenly. The worst are the gusts, quick changes in the force of the air that can spell certain doom. A wind stays current and one must be stalwart against it, but a gust comes out of nowhere and only a quick hand and eye as well as a sixth sense and a feel for the wind can make the shot true. But most important is PATIENCE. For the eighth time in as many hours I shift my legs and pull a tug of water from my canteen. Waiting is my profession. I wait for the opportunity for a job. Spending most of my free time in practice and training. I wait as information is trickled down to me to study my "Target". I wait at a location studying the area to get a lay of the land and the most effective place for me to be in order to present myself with the best possible angle and line-of-sight. And then I wait for the target to appear, after having studied his movements and habits. Two years ago I had gotten word from the higher ups who had gotten word from an informant that Phillipe DeGuerre, A French nationalist and freelance assassin for hire was commissioned by the "Cabinet" a shadow organization made up from a collection of businessman who had a hand in picking and choosing world leaders. Ser Reginald Douney was to be named as "Lord" on the British House of Commons. He was not a friend of the "Coalition" and therefore of no asset to them. In a small manor outside of Bath, Ser Reginald Douney was to make a small presentation to the Council of the town he was born. During this presentation DeGuerre was to assassinate him and his wife. I had stationed myself in a small grove of trees one-quarter of a mile from the house on a small hillside. I had studied the land and particular points of attack and settled on an area the DeGuerre most likely would place himself. I waited for two days, getting a feel for the weather and for the surroundings. I had given personal names to several trees, a little game I had made up on long waits. On the third day as the settings for the presentation were unfolding I had caught site a flash of light among the trees I have been watching. I waited for two more hours before I was sure that someone was in the trees. It takes a methodical eye to discern a camouflaged object from the natural surroundings. I had trained my rifle, the PSG-1 that I was using at the time, on the figure knowing that it would be DeGuerre. He was trained right back at me with a tiny Larch partially obscuring him, I on the other had was only obscured by a few bushes. I squeezed the trigger and slid to the left just as he squeezed his. The reports of both rifles broke the silence of the late morning and a brace of quail exploded from the surrounding bushes. My shot shattered the Larch, Larry by name, and his grazed my shoulder. When I recovered and trained my sights back on DeGuerre, he was brushing splinters out of his face and trying to level his rifle back toward me, my second shot took him in the face, but by this time the crowd around the podium on the grounds of the manor had erupted into chaos, with screams coming from the attendees and armed men moving into the woods to search out the origin of the gunshots. I packed up my rifle and fled though the forest to a waiting plastic case that held a set of spare clothes and would hold the rifle once it was broken down. And I waited to be picked up. Waiting is the game. Lack of patience will lose the game. The wind shifts slightly from the North-West and I shift with it, tiny compensation, too much and a inch from my position can measure feet at the target location. Tiny adjustments. I wipe the moisture from the lens of the sight from my Barrett Model sniper rifle. This is the weapon I was made for. I have had it for less than a year and had it made specifically to fit my hand. It is balanced for my use and has been equipped with a starlight/standard 10x scope. It is a .50 caliber weapon, outfitted with Teflon coated rounds capable of piercing even the most stubborn armor with a range of little more than ½ a mile and the crack of the shot sounds after the target is down. I have bored two holes down the center of the barrel to increase the bullets velocity making a much more true shot. I have named it the "Hand". Alexandre Rosov comes into sight. His entourage of Red Party Faction members huddles around him seeking his notice. He is an Ex-KGB commander and was personally involved the "Raven Project" which cost America two of her best inside intelligence officers. The planning of this mission has been over two years with frequent changes and additions to make sure that it would go off without a hitch. I have seconds to act as Rosov runs from his armored limousine out of the rain into the safety off the building that houses 3 Generals including General Viktor Patakin of the Soviet Republic and their cabinet of peace makers hoping to diffuse the situation in Afghanistan along with the Vice-President and his wife. Several United Nations envoys are within as well and if I fail, one particular area of the Middle East will not see peace and the world will have a few less military leaders. I follow along as quickly as I can with the scope making the swiveling of the gun a fluid motion. His head bobs in and out of the throng around him I see particular avenue and swivel ahead hoping to intercept him. His head comes into view and I squeeze the trigger with a controlled pull. Rosov's head disappears and one of his aides standing directly behind him goes down in a heap as well. The rest of the entourage move along not yet even comprehending what has just happened as the sonic boom of the gun scares a murder of crows in the tree next to me. They take flight in the mist of the rain flapping their wings and riding the currents as one form. His men scurry and take cover, guns drawn and heads swiveling about waiting for the next attack that will never come. I pull up the gun, sling it over my shoulder and drop to the ground. Down below is large gun-black case. I open it up and towel dry the gun. I place it inside the pre-form cut-out and close the case. I pull out a cigarette and light it up. I have no fear of being caught. I am ½ a mile away from the scene and no one would think to look in this direction, at least not for a couple of hours anyway. By that time I will be on a plane bound for America and in the middle a debriefing. I pick up the case and make my way back to the safe house. My name is "GOD".
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