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So Vladimir could fuck off.
Cruz
The taxi made good time, and we were soon at the destination. If the directions I’d been given were right, I was roughly two miles from the old farmhouse. We had stopped at the side of the road, the taxi driver incredulous that this was where I wanted to go. Large, thick woodland stretched across the road to my right. Open farmland laid to the left. I could make out houses and barns dotted around the countryside.
I needed to get off the fucking road.
I paid the taxi driver triple what he had asked for, making my best attempt to explain that he had never made this trip, if anyone a
sked. His eyes widened, but he nodded at me nonetheless, the serious look on his face letting me know that I didn’t need to threaten him. I got the impression that he would take his vow of silence seriously, imagining me to be some top-secret spy or a mob hitman. He wouldn’t be too far from the truth with the latter.
I jogged into the trees as he sped off back to the city. A few more fares and I’d be a distant memory.
The sun was fading into the sky, a red glow illuminating the clouds that hung low on the horizon. The afternoon sun was terribly bright, and I was grateful for the sunglasses I’d been donated as I jogged into the sunset, low sun occasionally peeping through the canopy as I travelled at a steady pace.
My mind was now clear, and I had a second wind from the whiskey, Coke, and chocolate. My blood sugar was up, and I felt powerful and confident.
As I ran, I focused my mind, pushing doubts aside and turning my emotions off like a switch. Over the course of a half mile, I became an ice-cold killer— emotionless and hard. After running for what I figured was roughly a mile total, I took a minute to stop and stretch out my muscles, going through a series of flowing moves that loosened muscle and tendons.
I stopped to assemble the bolt action rifle, checking the scope and adjusting it somewhat. I slung the rifle back over my shoulder. My combat knife was already at my hip, the glint of the blade well hidden by the rubber sheath. I tucked the revolver into my pants at the back, checking that the safety was on and the gun wasn’t cocked.
The Tokarev I’d acquired from my Russian friend was tucked into the front of my pants. It was the only gun I definitely knew worked, and I needed it there just in case. I emptied the chamber and clicked the bullet that pinged out back into the clip.
I held the black 9mm pistol in my hands as I ran, pointed down. Eyes roving the trees for targets. Both hands on the grip, steady. Bullet chambered, safety off.
The woodland started to thin out suddenly and I saw the edge of the forest ahead of me. The trees petered out down to farmland situated in a long, flowing valley, a steep bank marking the end of the woodland as it leveled out down to the field. The arable parcel of land before me stretched out almost all the way to a big old farmhouse in the distance.
The road I had arrived on in the taxi had roughly followed my direction, cutting through the fields over to my left.
I could make out a few figures standing around the farmhouse, patrolling. I ducked down, keeping a low profile as I approached a large tree at the top of the embankment. I clicked the safety on my 9mm and put it on the ground.
I unslung the rifle and crouched down prone into a marksman pose, finger off the trigger, left arm crooked at the elbow, large hand steadying the gun. Steady breaths minimized movement of the scope as I looked down at the scene in front of me.
An overgrown lawn surrounded the house. The whole farm looked unkempt and abandoned. Weeds poked through untilled soil and wood hung forlornly off of rusty nails from dilapidated fencing.
The approach to the house was open on all sides. I could crawl onto my belly unnoticed as far possible, but then would be exposed. Better to shoot from range first. There was no wind or rain, the air was still. I would only have to compensate for the slight drop of the bullet over the reasonable distance to my targets.
There was an old fence that separated two parcels of land in front of me, one adjacent to the road, and one set back to the right of the farmhouse. The fence ran from the edge of the tree-line, up to an old brick wall to the right of the farmhouse.
I decided it was the best cover I could get for when I approached the house.
I shifted, perfecting my stance. Knees steady on the hard ground. Everything went still and quiet as I breathed deeply, looking down the scope. One of the guys was smoking at the edge of the lawn. He looked bored.
Sorry bro. You’re first. Smoking kills anyway, you know.
I gently pulled the bolt action up and back, chambering a .308 round into the receiver and clicking the bolt back down in one fluid motion.
I aimed the center of the crosshair just above his head. This would be a range-finder. If I got him in his forehead, I’d judged it just right. In the face or neck, I’d need to adjust the scope for my next few shots. It would only take one bullet for me to know.
I breathed in and out once, deeply. Then I held my breath, my finger moving carefully to the trigger. A calmness descended upon me. I took a second to ensure I was deadly still. I squeezed the trigger gently. The rifle bucked in my hands, the butt pushing into my muscled shoulder.
My target’s head snapped back, a red mist spraying in a cloud behind his head as he flinched horribly, instantly dead.
Bullseye.
I yanked the bolt back and forth in a quick motion, the spent cartridge flying from the chamber. The click of the action readying my second bullet.
The sound of the gunshot echoing rippled around the countryside a split second later— the bizarre effect cause by the bullet travelling faster than the speed of sound.
