Page 34 of Glamour and Grit

I take aim through the sights. He appears in my crosshairs as he exits the vehicle. I don’t aim for his head, which is a small, frequently mobile target. I aim for the dead center of his chest instead. Much easier target to hit, and with the ordinance I’m using it doesn’t matter if he’s wearing a vest or not. It’s a kill shot either way.

My finger curls around the trigger. But someone else gets out of the car. Someone half Klaus’ size. A child.

I remember reading that Klaus had sired several children. It was in his dossier. It’s one thing to read about it, and another to see Klaus holding his son’s hand.

Klaus is too dangerous to be allowed to live. I still have the shot. The child is too short to present an obstacle.

But something’s wrong. My heart thuds like a dance club beat, rapid and loud. Sweat pours into my eyes, and I can’t see. When I shoot Klaus, his son is going to witness death up close and personal. He’s going to be covered in his father’s blood.

But I know that if I don’t act, I’m going to lose my shot.

Klaus moves toward the structure, his son rushing ahead. It’s the perfect opportunity, yet I still don’t fire. In another second, I’ll have missed my chance. I have to act. But even when I pull the trigger, I know I’m too late. The retort of the rifle makes the bodyguards scramble for cover, but Klaus is already out of sight.

I know what happened next in real life, but my dream logic is all over the place. Instead of a mad scramble to get off my perch so the ground pounders can take their shot at nabbing Klaus, I find myself back in my apartment, watching a news story unfold while trying not to collapse under the weight of fully-justified guilt.

…Source of the blast was said to be an IED. When first responders arrived on the scene, a second, concealed device detonated, causing a dozen more deaths and almost a hundred injuries, some of them serious. International fugitive Hans Klaus has claimed responsibility for the bombings, which were designed to garner support for his paramilitary anarchist movement…

Dozens of people dead. Many more injured. And all because I didn’t take the shot when I had the chance. On paper, Klaus should have been dead. Instead, my failure turned into one of his greatest successes.

I thought at the time that Navy Brass would come down on me like a ton of bricks. Instead, I only had to deal with one formal inquiry which concluded that while I had failed, I had not been derelict in my duties. It was probably the first time a sailor ever thought the Navy was going too easy on them.

In my dream, I do just what I did in my memory. I go into my bedroom and open the closet door. Inside, I input the code into a gunsafe and the door unlatches. I take out the .38 revolver, flip off the safety, and put it to my head.

If Harlowe hadn’t called me right then, I probably would havepulled the trigger. In my dream version, however, no one calls. I pull the trigger, like I didn’t with Klaus, and–

My eyes snap open. Sweat drenches my body, and suddenly the room is stifling. Selene lays placidly beside me, in a deep slumber. Her arm drapes across my chest, fingers splayed on my ribcage. Normally I would take a moment to savor this, but right now the room is oppressively hot, and I feel like I can’t breathe.

I slide out of bed, too upset to do it carefully. Selene stirs as I slide on my pants and jam my feet into shoes.

“Dane?” her voice carries with it the thickness of recent, deep slumber. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” My voice is tight as a drum. “I’m just going to check the compound. You should go back to sleep.”

My tone comes out a little harsher than I intended. I can see the disappointment and the hurt in Selene’s eyes, but she only nods.

“Okay. Be careful.”

I don’t reply as I head out of the bedroom and then exit the front door. Night insects create a cacophonous chorus that drowns out the thundering of my heart. I stare up at the moon, and wonder how everything can seem so normal when I’m falling apart on the inside.

Not even the recent, wonderful experience of sleeping with Selene is enough to draw me out of my despair. Nothing can, really. Just like nothing is ever going to bring all those innocent people back to life. I may not have planted the bomb, but I’m just as guilty as Klaus. Not only am I a trained shooter, I’m considered by many to be a great shooter. Skilled enough to instruct the next generation of snipers, at the least.

And yet, on a relatively simple assignment with very high stakes, I failed to deliver. Part of me wonders if I will always fail in the end.

A warm breeze sighs through the trees surrounding the compound. Nothing and no one on two legs but myself and Selene for miles. I wonder if Selene knows the real reason I’m out here. She’s pretty damn sharp. I can’t run from my past, or the memory of failure. No matter how hard I try.

It was stupid to get involved with Selene. I’m in no condition to bewith anybody. Hurting Selene is the last thing I want. Being with Selene is the thing I want most.

Being with her will lead to hurting her. It’s for the best if I cut things off now, before the water’s too deep.

If it isn’t already.

11

SELENE

Icontemplate Schrodinger’s Cat, or should I say, Schrodinger’s Dane. Right now, laying on the bed in his bugout with the warm sun in my face, all I can see is the red of my own backlit eyelids.

When I open them, Dane will either be lying in bed next to me, or he won’t. But at this very moment, he both is and isn’t here in bed with me. From a physics point of view.

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