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Steady on the trigger

“Steady on the trigger”, it was the advice Zane’s drill instructor had given him in training. He had left army training camp top of his regiment and had quickly been recruited by the SAS to perform covert assassinations

As Zane lay on the top floor of the abandoned hotel he peered into his sight, the wind was up, not a good start. He was hoping for a clean shot on the target but it seemed as though he’d have to put a little thought into it. His guile suit began to get uncomfortable, he debated taking it off, it wasn’t really acting as camouflage in a hotel room unless the Russians thought he was a large shrubbery. He wondered if the Russians had large shrubberies, if so, were they on the floors of abandoned hotel rooms? It was irrelevant, he had to keep focused on the task in hand.

He peered into his sight once again, hoping for a glance of his target. Finally! Fortune had slapped him in the face. The tall Russian stepped out of a stolen army hummer and started to walk towards a building on the far side of the road. Zane panicked, the building was less than 200 metres away, his head whirled with calculations that all boiled down to one option; now, or never.

He steadied the scope, carefully calculating wind speed and direction, he steadied his finger and followed his target; following his every footstep. Less than 20 metres to go, Zane began to count. 3… 2…1… he pulled the trigger. The bullet flew through the air and embedded itself into the Russian’s shoulder. It wasn’t a perfect shot but he was sure the man would die from shock and blood loss.

Zane relaxed, his mission was over, his target was dead and all he had to do was reach the Landing Zone. Feint helicopter blades whirled in the distance, perfect, he thought. The SAS must have seen the kill and come to extract him already. But as his listened the blades were getting closer and closer, too close, no pilot of the SAS would fly anywhere near an enemy zone. He ran, he ran straight into cover under the twisted broken debris of the hotel roof; he was just in time as a torrent of Apache chain gun bullets ripped through the breeze-block walls. They came thick and fast, desecrating the hotel room floor, Zane pressed himself closer to the floor preying to anything that one of those bullets did not hit him.

He was alone, he would have to think for himself, rely on his instincts, if he was ever to leave this place alive.

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