Page 33 of Glamour and Grit

It’s a shame, too, because he’s the perfect guy in so many ways. I just don't think we’re going to be interested in each other in the long term. He just got out of the Navy, and I just started my dream job.Now is probably not the time to be getting tangled up in something like this.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling and listening to Dane’s soft breathing, and keep trying to convince myself I’m not going to let myself fall in love. Who knows, I might even convince myself.

But if I do, I’ll just be lying.

10

DANE

The black and white linoleum of the diner gleams from overzealous polish. It goes with the chrome stools with their cherry red, glitter-accented padding, though. A towering jukebox in the rear complete the illusion that I’ve brought Selene to a 1950s diner.

“Come on,” she says, pulling on my arm, her eyes like drops of melted chocolate as she stares at me with all the love and adoration I’d ever hoped for. “You have to try the chocolate malt.”

“I never understood the difference between malts and shakes,” I say. The jukebox looms. It’s a lot closer than I thought it was. A lot bigger, too. It must be eight feet tall. “This looks exactly like the jukebox at the rec center when I was a kid…”

I try to read what songs are available, but it’s all gibberish. Must be a foreign language model. The sensation of Selene’s silken arms embracing me from behind makes me stop worrying about the jukebox altogether.

I turn around and pull her into my embrace, seeking out her lips. Our kiss spurs my heart to a thundering pace. I pull her into the bedroom, then look around in confusion.

“Wait, weren't we just in a diner? How did we get here?”

“We drove, silly,” she says, kissing me on the chest and tugging my clothing. “Hey, do you want to do a little roleplay? I could be a cheerleader, and you could be a quarterback.”

She steps back, clad in the classic blue and white of a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. A grin spreads over my face.

“That’s hot as Hell.”

“Or I could be someone else,” she says. “Like maybe, one of the victims Hans Klaus killed after you failed to take the shot?”

Her head jerks back, amid a spray of crimson. A scream tears from my throat as I fall to my knees. I roll Selene over, and her sightless, staring eyes tear my soul apart. She’s dressed in a burka, the muslin stained hopelessly with red.

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head and standing up. “This isn't happening. This isn’t right.”

What was I doing back in Estonia? And why was Selene here? I look down at myself and realize I’m wearing urban camo.

Just like the day my life changed forever, and so many others lost their own.

I know this must be a dream. I keep willing myself to wake up, to no avail. Helplessly, I go through all the same motions as I did on that day.

“Dane, get your ass into position,” the voice in my ear snaps. “Klaus’ town car is nearing the target zone.”

“Copy that,” I say, even though I know what’s going to happen. I rush up steps of crumbling concrete, exposed rebar coated red with rust. When I hit the twelfth stair, it fractures into a shower of dust and I nearly stumble.

Just as I did back then, I hope that the stairs will hold long enough for me to get to the fifth floor and take my shot. Klaus is an anarchist whose beliefs in an egalitarian society have driven him to madness. His paramilitary group is one part cult, one part terrorist cell.

He needs to be taken out. I know it, everyone knows it. Eventhough I know how this will end, I still feel the same surge of excitement as I reach the top floor.

I have to tamp that down. Marksmanship is all about divorcing yourself from the moment. Some people, like my buddy Cole at Platinum Security, imagine feeding all their emotions and anxieties into a flame.

Instead, I imagine a scalpel separating me from my emotions. The secret to hitting your target every time is treating it all like target practice. Smooth, clean, and efficient is your goal, not passion-fueled sprays of bullets.

Normally, I do that just fine. I slice my mind in two with the imaginary scalpel and I get my business done, and then I stitch them back together. But on that day, and in my dream now, I can’t do it.

I can’t divorce myself from the disgust and fear I have for this man. Klaus is pure evil in my estimation. He’s killed children and gleefully boasted of it, saying that finally the elites know what it is to fear losing their progeny as they do in third world countries every day.

It’s one thing to kill an adult, but a kid? Kids are off my shit list, as they should be off of everyone’s. Maybe because I never got a fair shake as a kid, it stings a little more.

The set-up is perfect. I have a clear shot, wind is nil. Klaus’ death should be an academic foregone conclusion.

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