-

Forty-One

Undisclosed Location

Friday, October 25th, 5:05 PM Local Time

The sniper wasn’t born a killer; she was made into one. In place of pleasure and satisfaction was shame and regret—but there was also a sense of pride and accomplishment. The seeing through of a mission and getting the job done. She’d be lying to say she didn’t love the sense of power and control that came with pulling the trigger. She’d been trained, and she did her job—or she tried. But that fat man and the woman hadn’t been a part of the mission. In the field, they’d have been civilian casualties except for she’d killed them intentionally—heat of the moment or not. She’d gone to that door prepared to take life.

She was seated on a bench at a train station, her hands tucked under her legs in an effort to still them. But they continued to quiver like fish frying in oil.

She watched people walk past and assessed each one, sizing them up as if they were targets and she was in the field. She glanced down at the bag she’d tugged close to her side. It held the handgun, but she had to do what she had to do. Her next step would also be off-mission, but maybe it was time to start thinking of herself. She bounced her legs and chewed on a fingernail.

People started looking at her—or at least it felt that way. Their eyes full of condemnation and judgment, ready to turn on her, turn her in, like they knew what she had done. All the people she had killed.

A lone tear spilled down her cheek, and she swiped it away. Her whiskey-induced headache had eased up and given way to her conscience. If only she could get more drugs, but she couldn’t risk refilling her prescription.

The FBI could already be onto her, and she needed to avoid arrest for at least two more days to see her entire operation all the way through and reap the full reward. That being the ultimate feeling of approval, acceptance, and praise—all of which sang to her soul, filling her with bliss. The thought of being locked in a cage before she received closure sent tremors tearing through her. Even if a cage was where she belonged.

A toddler walked by, holding his mother’s hand, mere feet in front of the sniper, but instead of facing ahead, he was staring at her. His innocent eyes probed hers. His widened a fraction as if he’d discovered her secret and saw the horrors living inside her soul. It took a mere child to see what most adults could not. But adults were too tainted by life’s experiences; their perceptions affected and out of focus. And she knew that she, too, was susceptible—and hated that weakness of being human.

She reached for the bag; her hand finally calm. She also became aware of the bag she had strapped to her back that held her sniper rifle. The backpack was just big enough to hold the disassembled gun, helping her move about less conspicuously. It was most unlikely a cop would stop her and ask for her permit to carry.

She might have had her moments of weakness, times when she left clues, consciously or not. A cry for help? Or stupidity? Even she didn’t know. But she wasn’t stupid enough to draw undue attention. She’d heard the stories of infamous serial killers taken down by happenstance and idiocy, not even related to the murders and atrocities they had committed. The Southern California Strangler, Randy Kraft, came to mind. He was pulled over for drinking and driving with a dead man in his passenger seat, putting an end to his killing spree. She’d heard of others who were brought down because of a broken taillight, an unpaid parking ticket, driving a stolen car, and other such stupid moves. And maybe for her, it wasn’t so much getting caught but being stopped. Then what would she do? Mission terminated, what would come next for her? That thought was actually more terrifying than prison. She’d either been told what to do or planned out her own life for the past fifteen years, maybe even before the Marines.

The station was emptying out, people having boarded their trains or departing. The path to the lockers was unobscured. The shiny marble floor mocked her, daring her to take a step across it. Challenge accepted.

She stood and grabbed her shoulder bag. The lockers were about thirty feet away. She’d do what she’d came to do and leave.

A loud, ear-piercing smack rang out across the lobby. She dove to the ground and slipped her hand into her bag, but yanked it out quickly as if she’d been bitten by a snake. She’d almost had her fingers wrapped around the handgun. That was close, but what the hell was that noise?

She studied her surroundings and spotted a janitor down the hallway righting a metal-handled mop. It must have hit the floor; the marble had amplified the thwack like a loudspeaker.

She got back on her feet. She was safe, but her heart was pounding.

Again, she glanced at the lockers. The thirty-some-foot span felt more menacing than before. She returned to the bench, her entire body trembling. She’d almost messed up like other stupid serial killers and drawn her handgun. At least last night she’d been careful; she’d gloved up.

Thoughts started to pour in on her—not fears over leaving trace at last night’s murder scene, but the kills themselves.

She pulled out the empty drug bottle from her inside jacket pocket and shook it. Ridiculous, really. Pills couldn’t magically manifest overnight. But, God, they’d take the edge off, afford her some peace of mind, let her breathe. If only. But she had none, no prescribed Band-Aid to seal her insanity. She jammed the bottle back into her pocket, her mind retreating to the past, to Afghanistan, to her nightmarish memories no one should have.