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Sniper

Sniper: Beauty and the Beast

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Disclaimer: This story belongs to me. All characters in it are copyright me.

Me mememememem.

There is bad language in this story, fairly graphic violence, and the depiction of non union squirrels in an unsavory light. No warrenty, express or implied, should be inferred.

Sniper.

by Alec Wire

This is a response to my own challenge, the second one.

The plane taxis into the runway, thirty minutes behind schedule. Erika’s going to kill me. As I get out of my seat and try to keep my head ducked under the overhead bin until the pretty little Chinese girl who I was talking to during the flight beside me can give me a little space, I think of what she’s going to do. Probably that little half-joking line she always uses: "I still do not know why I am dating a crazy white boy who’s always late and gets into more trouble than he knows what to do with. Can you explain that to me, Dennis?". This with that little ghetto head pop that reminds me that even though she lives in a house bigger than my brother the tax lawyer, she’s from Detroit with South African parents who lived in one of the poorest, shittiest little village-cities that I’ve ever seen. This means she can kick my ass in two languages, and she knows it.

I’m smiling, though. I love her so much and she knows it. The fact that I have my papers discharging me from the Teams in my backpack and her birthday presents to me in their little sheaths under the false velcro lining to my leather car coat only makes seeing her again a lot sweeter. With a little luck, she won’t be too mad about the half-hour delay on top of the hour-long taxi ride from Washington-Dulles, and we can have a little dinner, maybe a movie to celebrate and then go back to her place in Virginia to do the real celebrating. Oh, my my my. Any luck, and this is going to be a great evening and a great start to a great post-military life. Thirty years old and on top of the world.

I walk out of the gate and I feel it. Yup, she’s going to be pissed. This may take longer than a few minutes. I close my eyes so that I can "see" the crowd around me a little better, not that I can’t do it with my eyes open, but I don’t particularly want to get into the middle of a potential kill zone if I can help it and this just makes my kinetic field more finely focused. Hell. One guy with a HK suppressed pistol, three with submachine gun in their briefcases, and one with a sawn off Remington pump under his duster. Jesus, I hate guys who wear those. Guarantee: He either thinks he’s the Crow, which is unlikely in my opinion, given his age, or he thinks he’s some other generic king badass.

I set my backpack on the ground and slide it into the little alcove between the ticket check counter and the bag sizer, you know, the little thing that you have to check your carry-ons into to see if they fit in the overhead compartment. Sure, it’s a violation of federal law to leave a bag lying around an airport, but I don’t really want to answer any questions about what I’m sixty percent sure I’m going to have to do, and I want to be able to know where my bag is in a hurry when I have to get out of here quickly. I’m right about the sixty percent, of course. The little Chinese girl dresses rich enough to really attract attention, and these bozos don’t look like anything other than very well trained thugs, well trained enough to get serious hardware through airport security. It’s a kidnap. I pull behind the nearest concrete pillar and rip the Velcro cover off of the lining of my leather.

A funny thing about Erika: When I first met her on the set of "The Fallen King" with Mel Gibson, ten years ago, I was doing stunt work and contemplating joining the S.E.A.L.s, she was quietly getting rich working for a guy named Gil Hibben, designing custom knives for the mini-series. She still has her own line, but she mostly does custom, big bucks work. Given that I’ve expressed interest in fathering her children, she was more than happy to design and make one hundred custom blades for me, composite nonmetallic resin weighted with glass, twenty-five of which are sitting in their little leather sheaths on the inside of my jacket. I’m still laughing at the airport metal detector. As I’m thinking this, the mooks with the guns pull out their hardware and start yelling. The one with the pistol grabs the girl while the submachine guns cover the terrified crowd of folks deplaning. The one with the shotgun checks his watch and yells for the other four to hurry up and put on their goggles. This sucks. I’m never getting out of here in under fifteen minutes. The gunners grab goggles from their pockets and slap them on, stuffing earplugs into their ears as they do. Fuuuuuck me. I know what happens here. The dope in the duster pulls out a flashbang grenade, pulls the pin, pops the spoon, waits a two count, and lobs it. It explodes with a roar that sucks the sound from the air and a light that makes the world disappear. Not a problem. I debate whether or not to do anything. I wait around for them to leave, I walk away no fuss no muss. But the girl...I liked her. She doesn’t need to be in this. Sigh. Life is never easy.

I shut my eyes, letting the "kinetic" motion sensing field that’s made it impossible for me to miss any target I aim at since I was twelve and given me such a perfect understanding of motion and the efficiency of motion that I can actually throw hard enough and move fast enough to embed a throwing knife in concrete feel where they are. One sub-gun to my left, two on the right, pistol in the center, shotgun back and partly hidden behind a pillar. I feel them by the air currents moving around them, I feel every little movement they make. I often wonder how much I’d actually mind being blind. The mope with the pistol sees me first as I dive, tuck, and roll behind the next pillar. Little, hairy, and too ugly to live, he yells to the shotgun, who sprays the wall behind me with buckshot. Never mind the fact that I can dodge it if I’m paying attention, he aimed WAY high. Sloppy. I take one of the knives and plug the barrel with eight inches of harder-than-steel resin. He shoots anyway, backfiring the gun and spraying hot metal into his face. One down. Stupid one, too.

The submachine gun to my immediate left panics and starts blasting too near the crowd for my taste. An editorial comment: I hate machine guns. I myself am a sniper by avocation, and I use a M9-A firing .50 caliber depleted uranium rounds that leave an exit wound larger than an apple. In my eyes, using an off-the street piece like what he’s got is like using a chain saw to do brain surgery. Therefore, in response I put a blade through his eye socket and shut him up for good.

I want the girl out of there. I stand up out and away from the column I’m behind, but I get a spray of hot lead right by my eye, too close for comfort and I back off. Hmmm. I moan a little, like I’m hit, betting that at least one falls for it. Better than I expect. The last two sub-guns inch cautiously towards me and I meet the first one with five knives to his various body parts, thrown inhumanly fast by virtue of superhuman efficiency of motion. It occurs to me that the cops will probably want to ask some questions of SOMEONE, so I wait for the last sub to show, kick him hard enough to break his knee backwards, and deliver a hard, practiced blow to the larynx, crushing it. I kick his gun away and smile grimly. He’s going to be whispering for quite a while.

The guy with the pistol is yelling something about how he’s going to kill her if I don’t come out, and I’m getting bored. I put a knife through the muscles that connect his fingers to the rest of his arm, and while he’s howling about that, I break his neck with my elbow.

Sirens. Time to go. I check to see if the girl can see or hear yet, find out gratefully that she can’t, and grab my bag. I walk out the downstairs exit to the cabs and hail one. As I pull the door, I check my watch. Hmmmm....three minutes. Maybe we’ll make the movie after all.

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