(Trying to get back into the swing of things. Sorry it's a bit rusty. )
Everything that had happened in the past few days slammed into her head like a cruel torment. Mocking her with the constant barrage of things she'd done wrong. She wished she could take so much back, and of course there were a million things that she wished she could have done differently.
"Zoey..." The male voice resonated in her ear, a soft whisper.
Her attention refocused. Her eyes back on the image before her.
Oh god, Please.
Just….
shift….
a fraction…..
further……
to the left.....
The rush of adrenaline caused a flush in her cheeks. Her breathing came out in soft pants. Zoey had lost control of her carefully poised self. Desperate to gain some sense of discipline again she allowed for rose stained lips to part, giving way to an exercised exhale. Hands gripped down tight. Amber hues slammed shut for a moment before the thick fringe of lashes parted once more; a long leg slid up beside her in an arch.
And with all that whispered begging he moved.
Biting down ever so softly on her lower lip she tried to keep from grinning wide. It was perfect. The view down the length of the black barrel of metal was exactly as she had prayed for the night before. Another deep inhale expanded her chest, followed by an deeper exhale. A clouded stream, now visible stayed hanging there in a puff of moisture upon the cold air. Ink black irises focused down into a pinpoint as she lined up her crosshairs.
Laying out in the prone position on her stomach for as many hours as she had she wished she could let out a groan; but she couldn't. Rolling to one side for a second for relief her hips screamed, begging to be released the trap of the hard wood beneath her. She’d been there for nearly six hours.
Suddenly a heavier pack of movement through her scope caught her eye, and she settled back into place.
Digits slid from the barrel of the rifle to her throat to press on the microphone button that hugged there. The rough slide of a barely voiced whisper permeated the silence of the morning. “Target acquired.” A soft keyed up digital tone replied for the go ahead to take the man down.
Who was she waiting for? A brunette male, with green eyes and short well groomed hair. His dossier stated he was nearly 27 years of age. 6 feet, 7 inches tall. But they always failed a few details in things like this. It was a shame he was so good looking. What a waste. As she waited she noticed muscle and sinew ripple underneath a dark charcoal grey shirt, dressy black slacks bunched around larger than normal thighs. The trim and tapered waist of his remained partially covered by the jacket that covered his 1911, .45. A glimmer of a badge peeked through the opening of his coat.
She murmured gently as she exhaled. That tattooed digit with ‘Aim True’ slid into the trigger well, and with her final exhale she squeezed that hardened plastic down. “Fire….fire….fire..."
A cataclysmic boom resonated, causing a near ringing in her ears. The sharp rap of the rifle against the crook of her shoulder something that would surely cause pain in the morning, a harsh push striking that tender spot. The bolt slid back in a coiled pinging sound. And a round flew from the ejection port on the side, hitting her on the arm as it fell and then clattered to the floor.
Despite it all she did not move an inch. Only a soft flinch when the firing pin struck the bullet could have been spotted. It might have been her downfall, after all any movement could change a long distance shot drastically. She hoped not. Watching through that scope mounted tightly on her barrel she kept a close eye on the outcome.
And it was glorious.
His body slid back as the impact swept him off his feet. And the heavy grunt that escaped could be heard by those around him. Shocked gasps followed as he fell. But there was no large red splatter behind him. No 5.56 hole in the front of his shirt.
Instead there was nothing more than a crimson splotch of theater blood. Fragments of orange exploded around him, a rubber bullet.
Static clipped over the piece in her ear and then a deep voice resonated, raspy and filled with pain. “Good hit, Ryder…Sternum shot…remind me to get you back for this.” The grin that slid across her face a reply to his voice. “Thanks Cole. And yeah, I guess I owe you one.”
The voice that followed over the radio was a stark contrast from the pair.
“Alright kiddos, lets get back to class, and we can go over what went right, and what went wrong with all of this…..”
Sniper training. One of the many joys and pains of the week before the start of SWAT school.
Comments