Page 39 of Rise of the King (Checkmate 5)

7

Pest Control

Jay

41.9584° N, 70.6673° W.

My ghillie suit is made of greens, browns, and blacks, and moves with the soft breeze as I lie on my stomach at the top of the hill among long grass and fallen branches. It’s cold as fuck, but there’s no snow. The breeze bites the tip of my nose, but the rest of my body is covered enough that I won’t die of hypothermia.

Given my coordinates from Ace, I drove through the night and landed here at a little after four.

Now I wait.

Tree branches creak above me, and the breeze in the long grass provides moving cover as I study the vans pulling up a little more than a thousand yards ahead. One eye closed, the other staring through the scope attached to my Winchester,I let my finger slide along the barrel in preparation.

Three vans pull up, six men just like Cole Fenney, who think hurting people who are smaller and weaker than them is badass. Two men climb out of each van with their coats pulled tight but their pieces strapped on and visible.

Hundred-and-fifty-pound gangbangers with gold chains, gold teeth, and a predilection for hurting people, they make me want something a little more personal than plucking them off like sitting ducks.

They deserve worse, and I deserve something more satisfying.

Huddling in front of the van, the men exchange words; some are kind; some are catching up, and some appear to be pissed that they weren’t the first to arrive.

I hear none of this, but I see their lips move; I see their body language.

Peter Aguilar said it’s a contest to see who arrives first; today, three vans arrive at the same time, but only one can be the victor. Four of the six men here today will be punished for being too slow, and that tension blows on the breeze until I can almost smell it.

Ever since I was a kid, when my big brother decided he was going ATF despite my father’s wishes we follow him into the military, Kane has been working on his marksmanship.

Everything he did, I did. Because fuck my father, he can suck a bag of dicks. Colum Bishop beat us as often as he could, separated us when we pissed him off, starved us when he thought we were getting too strong, and put us through the equivalent of Hell Week every fucking week of our childhoods.

He wanted us to be like him, and because we said we’d rather try something else, he punished us.

But Kane, my hero, my fucking savior, he was strong enough for us both. He took my beatings when he could, fed me his dinner before he took a bite himself, healed my wounds when our father took it too far, and gave me his coat when I was cold.

And in our spare time, we worked on our shooting skills.

Now Kane holds a lot of the records set down around the country for longest sniper hit, for sharpshooting, for fastest simulator runs, for most kills, for most accurate shots.

He taught me the way he teaches everyone he cares about.

And though I may never hold the records, I’ll come second to him for the rest of my life and be happy about it.

The sun isn’t up yet, but the horizon shows hints of pink as a fourth and final vehicle enters my scope. Headlights illuminate the vans, and though the six original men scowl and throw attitude at each other, they stand tall and pull their shit together when the last car – a town car with a shiny grille and a driver – pull up and cut the lights.

Stretching my finger forward, I rest it by the trigger, but I don’t make my move yet.

As soon as I make my first shot, they’ll scatter like bugs in the night. So I wait, I plan, and I intend to take them all out so the women in the vans are the only hearts left beating.

In a suit and tie, a fucker I don’t know climbs out of the back seat of the town car and fixes his coat. Shivering and bouncing his shoulders, he closes the car door and approaches the group.

Fuck, I wish I had audio.

It doesn’t change anything, but I want it anyway.

The rich guy, the one in charge, points to one of the vans. Flicking his wrist, he tells one of the gangbangers what he wants, which results in the guy rushing away, only to come back with his load of crying women. They clutch at each other as he stands them in a line. Six of them cry and beg for release. Six women who aren’t even legally allowed to drink yet are this close to the end of their lives.

When one of them refuses to conform, when her crying is so loud, even I can hear it from all the way over here, the gangbanger slams his boot into the back of her legs and sends her sprawling.

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