The Long Shot

by Bob Freye

The two steel legs sat on rubberized pads that kept the heavy barrel of the rifle from swaying. Even the slightest movement would throw off the shot, and Jackson never missed.

This shot would be especially long, across more than a city block.

“He’s coming,” a voice whispered in his ear.

That was Lyn. She would be standing somewhere just out of his line of sight near the back entrance to the park.

He watched over the top of the scope until he saw movement on the cobblestone walkway, near a tall hedge that was heavy with flowers. Jackson peered through the scope, and the image of the man became large and clear.

He was drab and weary, dressed in dirty jeans and a long woolen coat that had seen better days.

Jackson identified a spot on the man’s chest. That would be his heart. The first shot would hit the man right there.

“Do you have him?” Another voice, raspy and impatient.

“Affirmative.” Jackson didn’t have to press a button to activate the microphone. His hands were busy.

The muzzle of the rifle moved almost imperceptibly, following the man as he walked slowly beside the hedges. The walkway was empty. No one came to this part of the park so early in the morning.

“Who is this guy?” Jackson asked.

He had removed a number of targets in the past, but they were always important people, flashy and rich. They deserved what they got, or at least that’s what he told himself. But this guy didn’t look evil. He certainly didn’t look dangerous.

The man stopped near a rough wooden bench and lowered his head.

“What’s he doing?” Jackson asked.

“Thor,” the raspy voice interrupted, “do you have the shot?”

“I have the shot,” Jackson answered, “but what’s he doing?”

He calmly racked a point-three-three-eight round into the chamber. The bullet was jacketed, so it would tear right through the target. Overkill for a job like this, Jackson thought. But they wanted to be sure.

“Lyn, can you see what he’s doing?”

“Take the shot!” the raspy voice grew more impatient.

“Lyn?”

There was silence in the tiny earpiece attached to Jackson’s right ear. Around him, construction equipment banged and rattled and growled. Right next to him, they were driving some sort of steel into the ground to finish the foundation of the building. A crane would raise a heavy weight up in the air and then let if fall on the steel beam, driving it down.

Bang!

He had cotton in one ear to avoid losing his hearing. But the sound would work to his advantage. He would time his shot with the fall of that weight, if possible. The sound of the rifle would be covered completely. Otherwise, if he was off a little, his shot would probably be mistaken for one more construction sound.

“Lyn, can you see him?”

Her voice came back in the earpiece. “He’s praying.”

“Who is this guy?”

“Thor, this is Control.” The voice in his ear was insistent. He was probably having a fit right now. “Take the shot!”

“What has this guy done?”

“That’s not your problem! We pay you to take the shot! Now do your job!”

“What is he, some kind of homeless drug baron?”

“Take the shot!” the voice screamed. “Take it now, or I’ll find someone else who will!”

Jackson exhaled slowly, relaxing his body to eliminate the slightest muscle movement. The scope was aimed at the man’s chest. The contract didn’t allow him a head shot, so he steadied the cross-hairs on the front of the shabby coat.

The voice was frantic. “Ice,” it shouted, “forget Thor. Take the shot.”

No need, Jackson thought. His finger squeezed the trigger at just the right moment, and the explosion of the rifle bullet was lost in the hammer-blow on the steel beam below.

Maybe it was the distraction of the voice in his ear. Maybe it was the twinge of doubt that fluttered across his mind just as he squeezed off the shot. For whatever reason, the bullet impacted the target low and to the left. It tore into the man’s side, spinning him around and knocking him to his knees.

Jackson yanked the bolt, ejecting the spent casing. He rammed another round into the chamber. 

He never missed. This was a mess.

He steadied the cross-hairs onto the target, who was kneeling on the cobblestone walk, facing toward Thor, perfectly positioned for another shot.

Odd.

The three-three-eight was a beast of a gun. Even slightly off target, the bullet should have torn the man in two. But there he was, still on his knees.

Maybe—

“Confirm the shot!” the raspy voice screamed. “Somebody tell me what is going on!”

The rifle erupted again, adding its distinctive boom to the general construction sounds. Jackson watched the bullet thud against the man’s coat, right where the heart should be. The target was knocked backward and lay on the walk, arms and legs thrown outward, with red spreading over the front of the coat and from under the body onto the cobblestone walk. 

“Confirm,” Jackson snapped. “Two shots.”

He pushed himself to his feet and hurried to a nearby ladder, leaving the rifle in place. There were no marks on the weapon that could lead back to him. If he tried to carry it away, he would invite the attention of witnesses or the police.

He slid down the ladder and walked through a group of construction workers who didn’t seem to notice. His hard hat was a different color. He could have been from any number of different crews who came and went on the site without any notice. 

No one saw the tiny earpiece clipped behind his ear. 

“Say again, Thor. Two shots?”

The microphone was tucked under his collar to muffle background sounds. When he was away from the workers, Jackson repeated his report.

“Confirmed,” he said. “Two shots. Now who was this guy?”  

A pause.

“What do you care? Leave the area.”

“Not yet.”

One more ladder and he was on the ground, hurrying away from the construction site, up onto the sidewalk, toward the park.

“Say again, Thor.”

“I want to see for myself.”

The voice on the other end started to sputter, but Jackson flipped the earpiece off his ear and let it dangle on his shoulder. He stepped briskly around the few pedestrians on the sidewalk, darted between traffic, and rushed into the nearest entrance to the park.

Down the cement walk, through a garden, around the hedge—

It was all wrong.

The blood was still there, a dark red stain on the cobblestones. But the man was sitting on the wooden bench, leaning back, his hands folded at his chin.

Lyn stood a few feet away, her gun drawn and pointed nearly point-blank at the man.

“I say again, the target is up.” Lyn’s voice was tense. Her face was pale. “He is sitting right in front of me,” she said.

Jackson could hear the frustration at the other end. His earpiece was muffled, but the raspy voice was shouting.

Jackson carried an automatic under his jacket. His hand unfastened the strap of the holster, and as he drew the pistol, he flipped off the safety and pulled back the hammer.

The feel of the carbon fiber handle helped steady his nerves, but he didn’t know exactly what he should do.

“Who are you?” he asked the man.

The man turned a bit toward Jackson. The red stains were clearly visible on the front of his coat.

“I came for you,” he said, and turning back toward Lyn, he added, “and you.”

“So it was a setup,” Jackson said. “Some kind of armored vest under the coat, a few squibs of fake blood—“

“It’s no setup,” Lyn interrupted, her voice trembling. Her hands were shaking, too.

They called her Ice, because nothing ever rattled her. They called him Thor, because he dropped the hammer on people. Apparently, they were not living up to their names on this job.

“Look at him, Jack,” Lyn pleaded.

“I see him,” he told her.

“Look at him!”

He had been sitting at an angle to the sidewalk. The man stood and slowly turned toward Jackson.

The two bullets had done their damage. His side was punctured, allowing a great deal of blood to drain from his body. But the other shot had gone right through the chest. There was a hole there. Jackson could see through the hole to the grass and trees behind.

No armor. No squibs. 

“I want you to come with me, to follow me,” the man said. “Both of you.”

“I killed you,” Jackson said.

“Yes, and you did some other regrettable things,” the man said. “But I’m giving you a chance to begin again, a new life, to leave the old things behind.”

“You can’t—“

“I can, actually.” The man pointed to the stain on the cobblestones. “The price has been paid for you, if you will accept it. Now follow me, and find out what God has for you. You won’t need those.” He pointed to the pistols.

The gun felt heavy in Jackson’s hands.

“Why did they want you killed?” he asked.

“Because I’m dangerous. We can’t both exist, me and your controller.” He glanced at the earpiece still resting on Jackson’s shoulder. “You can only listen to one of us.” 

The pistol came up again. Jackson centered it on the man’s chest, but there was a hole there already. The pistol was meaningless.

“Why did you come here?” he said.

“I told you. I came for you.”

He looked at the two pistols aimed at him and sighed.

“You can tell your controller that I’m coming back, and when I come, he won’t have a job anymore. He won’t be able to do these things anymore. Someday. It will be soon. But I will come.”

“Why not now?” Lyn asked. “If you can do all that, why not do it now?”

He looked at Lyn with sad eyes.

“Because today I came for you. Now follow me.”

He turned away and began to walk slowly down the cobblestones, past the stain.

Jackson played the whole thing through again in his mind, and his finger eased off the trigger. He let the hammer down and released the magazine. Racking the slide, he ejected the round that was already in the chamber. Then he unhooked the slide and pulled it loose, breaking the gun down. He tossed everything into the hedge and walked down the cobblestones, following the man.

Lyn watched him, but when he tried to walk past, she turned the gun in his direction. He wanted to drag her along, but he could only pass slowly by, knowing that the controller was ordering her to shoot, hoping that she would not listen.

The man waited for him, and when Jackson came near, he said, “You can only listen to one voice in your ear.” He pointed to the earpiece.

Jackson reached under his jacket to unhook the wire and pull the receiver off his belt. He chucked the little box into the hedge. He would remove the earpiece later.

The man looked back at Lyn, but her hands were wrapped around the pistol, and the pistol was aimed at them.

They turned away and started to walk, until they heard the clack of metal on metal.

Jackson spun around and reached instinctively under his jacket, but the holster was empty. He had thrown the gun away.

He didn’t need it. Lyn stood with gun in one hand and magazine in another. They had heard the sound of a bullet being ejected, leaving an empty chamber.

A tiny earpiece dangled on her shoulder, suspended only by a thin wire that had been threaded carefully under her collar.

On the other end of the wire, the Controller screamed at her.

But she didn’t notice.

##

A last word:

In Matthew twenty-seven, verse fifty-four, the Roman soldier in charge of the crucifixion could see that Jesus was no ordinary person. The soldier had witnessed executions before, but not like this.

“This is the son of God,” he said.

He knew something was different, but he didn’t know the whole story.

Perhaps he would discover more in the days to come. I wonder if he was one of those who heard the message of the risen Jesus and realized the real meaning of the cross.

I wonder if he ever reached out for the mercy of God or left his old life behind to follow the savior that died for him.

I wonder if he knew. 

  
[-] © 2007 by Bob Freye