The sniper had been paid to take out a target and this is what he would do. His own life would be forfeited if he failed.
He knew that in a few moments, a young man would walk out of the building. Did it matter who his target was? He had persuaded himself, as he did everytime, that it didn't. It's a terrible thing to kill a human being. But is it so much worse to kill a twenty-five-year-old man who will never be twenty-six than a twenty-eight-year-old who would never be twenty-nine? The sniper had decided that death was death. That didn't change. Nor did the fifty thousand dollars he would be paid for this hit.
As usual, he would aim for the heart. A small target, but he would not miss. He never missed. It was time to prepare himself, to bring his breathing under control, to enter that state of calm before the kill.
He focused his attention on the gun that he was holding, the self-loading Ruger point 22 model K10/22PPF. It was a low-velocity weapon and less deadly than some he might have chosen, but it was light and compact. By removing just two screws, he had been able to separate the barrel and the trigger mechanism from the stock. The stock itself folded in two. This allowed him to carry the whole thing in an ordinary sports bag without drawing attention to himself. In his line of work, that was a critical thing.
He focused his eye through the Leupold 14x50mm Side Focus scope, adjusting the crosshairs against the door through which the target would pass. He loved the feel of the gun in his hands, the snug fit, the perfect balance. He had it customized, the stock was laminated wood with water-resistant adhesive, the trigger mechanism had been taken apart and polished for a smoother release. Even the bullet he was using had been prepared. Made by Eley, it was forty grains in weight and readily available on the open market, but he had carefully drilled a small hole in the head. The shock of air as the bullet entered its target would cause as much damage was the bullet itself. The rifle would reload itself as fast as he could fire it, but he would only need the one shot.
He was perfectly content. When he fired, in the blink of an eye, the bullet would begin its journey down the barrel, going 1085 feet per second; he and the rifle would be as one. Everything else was irrelevant. The target. The payment. The act of killing itself was enough, for at that moment he was God.
The door opened and the target appeared. To him, the target wasn't a man. A target was a target. And he was here to do a little surgery - but with a bullet rather than a scalpel. He focused his attention through the gun. He wasn't holding the gun, it was a part of him. He relaxed, enjoying the moment, preparing to fire.
.....
Anthony Kuyuki stepped out onto the street. It was about five o'clock and the there was quite a few people around. He took another step forward and stopped. Something had hit him in the chest. It was as though he had been punched. He looked left and right, but there was nobody close to him. How very strange.
But there was something else that was very strange, the ground seemed to be going uphill. He knew for a fact that it was flat, but now it was definitely slanting. Even the building he just stepped out of was leaning to one side. What the hell was happening? The colours were draining out of the air, the world went from colour to black-and-white apart from the odd splashes of colour here and there - the bright yellow of the sign above him, the blue of a car . . .
. . . And the red of blood. As he looked down at himself, he was surprised to see that his whole front had turned red. An irregular shape spreading across his shirt, widening every second. He was aware now that the sounds around him had faded. The nearest people had stopped and turned to look at him, in shock. There was a woman screaming, but she made no sound.
The ground suddenly tilted so that it was almost upside-down. A crowd had gathered. He wished it would all go away, but there they were, pointing and gesticulating. What were they so interested in him for? Why couldn't he move anymore? He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, not a word, not a breath.
Kuyuki was starting to panic now; there wasn't any pain, but he knew he must have been hurt. He was lying on the ground though he didn't know how he got there. There was a red circle around him, widening with every passing second. He wasn't breathing anymore either, but he hadn't noticed.
No pain. Just a sense of tiredness and resignation. He relaxed and closed his eyes.
He knew that in a few moments, a young man would walk out of the building. Did it matter who his target was? He had persuaded himself, as he did everytime, that it didn't. It's a terrible thing to kill a human being. But is it so much worse to kill a twenty-five-year-old man who will never be twenty-six than a twenty-eight-year-old who would never be twenty-nine? The sniper had decided that death was death. That didn't change. Nor did the fifty thousand dollars he would be paid for this hit.
As usual, he would aim for the heart. A small target, but he would not miss. He never missed. It was time to prepare himself, to bring his breathing under control, to enter that state of calm before the kill.
He focused his attention on the gun that he was holding, the self-loading Ruger point 22 model K10/22PPF. It was a low-velocity weapon and less deadly than some he might have chosen, but it was light and compact. By removing just two screws, he had been able to separate the barrel and the trigger mechanism from the stock. The stock itself folded in two. This allowed him to carry the whole thing in an ordinary sports bag without drawing attention to himself. In his line of work, that was a critical thing.
He focused his eye through the Leupold 14x50mm Side Focus scope, adjusting the crosshairs against the door through which the target would pass. He loved the feel of the gun in his hands, the snug fit, the perfect balance. He had it customized, the stock was laminated wood with water-resistant adhesive, the trigger mechanism had been taken apart and polished for a smoother release. Even the bullet he was using had been prepared. Made by Eley, it was forty grains in weight and readily available on the open market, but he had carefully drilled a small hole in the head. The shock of air as the bullet entered its target would cause as much damage was the bullet itself. The rifle would reload itself as fast as he could fire it, but he would only need the one shot.
He was perfectly content. When he fired, in the blink of an eye, the bullet would begin its journey down the barrel, going 1085 feet per second; he and the rifle would be as one. Everything else was irrelevant. The target. The payment. The act of killing itself was enough, for at that moment he was God.
The door opened and the target appeared. To him, the target wasn't a man. A target was a target. And he was here to do a little surgery - but with a bullet rather than a scalpel. He focused his attention through the gun. He wasn't holding the gun, it was a part of him. He relaxed, enjoying the moment, preparing to fire.
.....
Anthony Kuyuki stepped out onto the street. It was about five o'clock and the there was quite a few people around. He took another step forward and stopped. Something had hit him in the chest. It was as though he had been punched. He looked left and right, but there was nobody close to him. How very strange.
But there was something else that was very strange, the ground seemed to be going uphill. He knew for a fact that it was flat, but now it was definitely slanting. Even the building he just stepped out of was leaning to one side. What the hell was happening? The colours were draining out of the air, the world went from colour to black-and-white apart from the odd splashes of colour here and there - the bright yellow of the sign above him, the blue of a car . . .
. . . And the red of blood. As he looked down at himself, he was surprised to see that his whole front had turned red. An irregular shape spreading across his shirt, widening every second. He was aware now that the sounds around him had faded. The nearest people had stopped and turned to look at him, in shock. There was a woman screaming, but she made no sound.
The ground suddenly tilted so that it was almost upside-down. A crowd had gathered. He wished it would all go away, but there they were, pointing and gesticulating. What were they so interested in him for? Why couldn't he move anymore? He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, not a word, not a breath.
Kuyuki was starting to panic now; there wasn't any pain, but he knew he must have been hurt. He was lying on the ground though he didn't know how he got there. There was a red circle around him, widening with every passing second. He wasn't breathing anymore either, but he hadn't noticed.
No pain. Just a sense of tiredness and resignation. He relaxed and closed his eyes.
