There had been a heap of locker room chat. Regular ‘guy’ stuff. Grabbing this, grabbing that. Hopefully staying out of the headlines. Out of trouble.
This was his first time out, fresh from training and the weather was a wonder. You could see for miles.
The spot they’d picked was a doozy. Open, on a natural thoroughfare. Enough light and a good spot in which to hide. Clear lines of sight but tucked away out of obvious view. Positioned on a natural curve, they wouldn’t even know they were waiting, wouldn’t know what hit them until too late.
An hour had passed and not much had happened. He was, to be fair, a little disappointed. The books and videos and PowerPoints made it seem so exciting. The older crew had bragged about how many, how far, how big, how fast.
A couple of buzzards circled overhead, gracefully searching for mice, rabbits, voles...
This group’s target was bigger. A white whale, they wanted, but one that travels by land not sea.
There had been a brief moment when the jokes and the chatter halted abruptly. The promise of a kill was ripe enough to render them silent....for an instant but that too was a false alarm - the quarry too small, too lumbering, of little interest.
And then it came, he heard it before he saw it.
He got into position. Just as in the diagrams. This was it....his time in the sun.
Arms straight. Eyes down the sight. Breathe in. Hold that breath. Concentrate. Make them proud. Let’s get this sucker.
Photo framed on the mantelpiece.
*Shades and hair oil*
The towel was draped on the back seat. Trainers too. Box fresh. Worn just the once. One carefree owner.
Cigar smoke billowed. Ghastly music bellowed. ‘Top down on the blacktop’ he’d have said back home. Not here, though. Here it was the ‘autoroute’. Boring name, boring roads. He was bigger than this, better than them. Had they not seen his groin-al extension piece?
Tanned skin, like a coffeehouse couch stretched too thin. He winked at his own reflection. The gold chain twisted as he changed from 4 to 6. Skipping 5. 5 was for saps and he put his foot to the floor, pedal to the metal.
He belched. Then laughed.
Maybe that last coffee cognac was a bit too much. But he’d deserved it. The put had done well. He’d gambled on the FX rates. He’d taken a cool mill and then he taken Willis to the cleaners at the range too.
What. A. Day.
Thinning hair wafting in the breeze. This was the life.
*Shared moment*
Squeeze the trigger slowly. Stay on the target. Allow for movement. 3 seconds....2 seconds...1 second....FIRE.
165k/mh in an 80 zone.
YES!
Rookie of the year, here we come!
