She has been here for three days. Three solitary days of watching and waiting. Sleep has been a problem, snatched naps, little Bo-Peeps, nodding. She has kept it at bay with the Pro Plus, but now it is wearing thin. Her concentration fluctuates, her mind feels like it is pulled tight and thin over the dome of a skull.
She watches her hands, aware that they must be steady and sure when the moment comes. She must be ready at all times.
She has made a little nest for herself her in the boughs. The walls are rustling green, her seat the widest branch, he roof a lattice of limbs. Her store cupboards are bags hanging on shoots. One for food, one for water, one for poo, one for ammo and one for the gun.
She lifts it down and cradles it in here arms like a dearly loved and precious baby.
A modified SR-25, her tool of choice for her particular profession. It is not the most accurate, but that is not the only consideration. It can have a noise suppressor fitted, as the one in her arms does, it can be easily disassembled, and this she starts to do. Slipping each piece apart from the whole. Carefully wiping it and examining it for imperfections with her fingers. Not her eyes, she must be able to do this in the pitch black. Also for the dark there is a flash suppressor.
The magazine holds 20 rounds of match-grade ammunition, but if she needs more than one she will be surprised. Still, she will routinely use two for a ‘double tap’, three if that is needed.
She wipes it lovingly and slots it all back together, click, click, click. Like the way her mind works on a job. No doubts, no questions, just predetermined actions. Out and away before anyone quite realises what has happened.
She didn’t need to see the photos when they told her the name of her target. She wasn’t surprised, had expected it sooner or later, him.
Sometimes when she is waiting she likes to go back into her memories, replaying good moments, trying to avoid the bad. Her family, what she can remember of it. Her mother loving and caring, always there for her, always supporting, confiding, coaching. Her sister annoying, until she wasn’t and then she really missed her. Her father, distant, rarely present, domineering and controlling when he was. The house a changed place when he arrived. Transformed from a warm sanctuary to a place of danger and violence.
After that awful day, the day everything changed, her father was all she had left. Gone were the warm touches and words, the womanly times together, the whispering and kissing.
She was almost of age, so her father had a distant aunt look after her, until her birthday. Then the papers arrived. Her father only knew one life and so he presented that to her as a fait accompli. With no other plans it seemed like the right thing to do.
What she discovered was another sisterhood. They trained together, ate together, slept together. After three months they all had their periods together. She was good too. She could run and jump and climb. Then later they discovered that she could shoot. The weapons sergeant kept trying to find her limits, tried to trick her and trip her up, but no, there was an inner icy core to her that kept her cool whatever he did. Eventually he gave up and put her marksmanship down to his brilliant training. But it wasn’t. No. She was born to do this, forged through tragedy and loneliness, hewn from tough stuff, like the weapon in her lap, she had been built for this and this alone.
She peered through the canopy of leaves at the distant compound. If the intelligence was right, which it often wasn’t, he would be here. He should have been here two days ago, but she wasn’t going to give up now. It had taken weeks to prepare and days to get herself into position. There was no way she was going to move if there was a chance that the target would show.
She scans the surroundings again, as she has done a thousand times. Check for movement, check for cars, check for patrols. Most of the patrols had been limited to the compound, but just once they had ventured further. They had done a professional scan of the area. Moving out 100 meters, then fanning out and walking around the compound. Slowly stalking and checking, quiet murmurings on the radio.
One of the soldiers had come right up to her tree. Had even stopped to take a leak. He looked all around checked very thoroughly, but did not look up. They never do. He was lucky, because if he had, he would have been dead. Then she would have had to abandon the job. But no, true to form, nothing happened.
Nothing ever happened until it did and then all hell broke loose.
Scanning the environment she spotted dust in the distance. She watched, feeling the calm come over her, the cool sense of priming for action. She didn’t need to get ready, she was always ready.
The car came to a stop outside the compound and the driver got out to open the rear passenger door. Even as he clambered out, she knew it was him, though she put her eye to the telescopic sight to confirm. His every movement familiar, his gait she could recognise at 100 paces, each hand gesture, shrug of shoulders, tilt of head. All give aways. But she did nothing without checking everything.
He strode (moving too quickly, need half a second at this distance) through the compound entrance (target obscured, no good shot), and up to the door of the main building (still within range, she had test shot two days ago). There the door was flung open and a figure came out to hug the target (obscured, collateral damage likely). Then they held each other at arms length, like brothers who have not seen each other for years. Brothers in arms.
Shoot.
Phut, phut, phut, spat the gun. Statistically likely that at least one of the carefully manufactured bullets would find their target.
She was folding her gun, stuffing her bag and climbing down the tree before she heard any reaction at all. When her feet hit the ground there was the sound of shouting from the compound. Then she knew. Another target, another job, but not just any. Now she knew she was an orphan. She had taken the last step and severe the last cord.
She ran, ran crouching, darting through the trees. A practised escape path. After 300meters she dropped into an old railway cutting and retrieved her motorcycle.
She was gone.
He was gone.
Good riddance.
Evil little prick.