Before the Body Falls

Read the excerpt:

11 August 2012

He sweated bullets, but not the kind he was about to use. Those were the metallic kind. Forged in fire. Ice to the finger. Death unto life. Unlike those that ran down his face. Slow. Slippery. Sticky. Dancing across his stumbled chin. Those bullets hung on the edge of his chin before falling to kiss his chest.

Hot and unbreathably heavy was the air that hung over KwaZulu Union Bay City. The glass towers absorbed the heat and trapped it within their walls. It was hottest in the heart of the city, and everyone felt it.

One person in particular fought hard to stay cool. Hand tight around the handle of his case, the sniper was glad when he finally stepped off the street and into a little cool breeze provided by air-conditioning. Beads of sweat had clung to his forehead, but his focus never wavered. Beneath the black two-piece suit and black shirt, lightweight tactical gear designed for the heat of combat hugged him. It reminded him of his days in the army, and today was no different to a day in the desert heat of Sudan. But he had no time to reminisce. He glanced at his large black case as he adjusted his hand against the handle. Boots soft as he made his way through the foyer. He wiped his palm against his blazer. Swallowing a sigh, the suit would need to be dry cleaned before he returned it, he admitted to himself. That would add to the paper trail. He didn’t like that. Pulling out an access card from his jacket pocket, he tapped it on the scanners, which let him pass through the turnstile.

The blueprints filled his mind, the route playing back like a record. Neck thick with tension and eyes fixed ahead, he made his way through the building. Then up the lift to the top floor. He found his way to the Roof Access door. Pulling out a wafer-thin metal plate from his pocket, he let the high-tech card skimmer get to work, bypassing the lock with a quiet beep.

The door clicked open, and he slipped through and closed it.

The noise of the city crashed on him, contrasting with the calm within the building. He checked his time; he was early, but he preferred that. Making it to the east side edge of the roof, he took a moment to look at the street below. Scanning the street, he found the door of the opposite building, took two steps right, then released his case. He didn’t like the view as much as he would’ve liked the corner of the adjacent building, but this was the position he was given. He dropped to a knee and popped his case open. From inside, he pulled out a thin black mat and placed it on the floor, angling it to face southeast. Then grabbed the custom sniper rifle from the case and assembled it from muscle memory. He pulled out the sound suppressor and strapped it on. Opening the bipod, he placed the rifle on his mat, closed the case, then lay down behind the rifle. Through the scope, he could see the street, pulsing with activity as vehicles and pedestrians moved around like ants beneath him. He checked his time again, just under an hour. He took a breath, then reminded himself about his target.

Male, mixed race, mid-twenties. Blue t-shirt, black pants, and white shoes. Black sedan, tinted windows, custom wheel caps.

That was everything in the message he received about a quarter more than two hours ago. The only message he was sent on the second of three burner phones. After memorising the details, he crushed the device beneath his boot. Turned on the last burner and kept it in his inner blazer pocket.

He took a breath and pulled out a pair of black sunglasses to shield his eyes. Then the burner. He connected his wireless earpiece and plugged it into his ear, dropping the phone on the mat. His mind drifted to his military days as he waited, looking through the scope every so often as the minutes ticked on. He wondered who his client was, but ignored the curiosity. For him, this wasn’t personal, just a job.

Behind him, the access door rattled. The handle jerked up and down violently.

He looked over his shoulder. Waited. His right hand found the handle of the knife on his belt, heart hammering.

“Dylan, did you jam the door again? Come on, dude, you know this is the only place I can have a smoke; open the door.”

A bang rattled the door before the steps receded.

The sniper closed his eyes. Released a breath, steadying his pulse. Then, he turned back to the street. More focused than before.

The minutes dragged as he waited. The wind whistled. The hands turned silently around the face of his watch. His eyes bounced around the vicinity. Scanning. Searching. He looked through the scope and tapped his finger next to the trigger multiple times before tyres screeched on the asphalt in the distance, somewhere off his nine o’clock. A loud bang echoed against the walls of the buildings. Metal crunching. Glass shattering.

Turning to that direction, his eyes narrowed. Tearing off his sunglasses, he brought his eye to the scope and scanned the area. Waited. Then another bang rang before multiple gunshots joined the song, harmonising with the sound of firearms being fired all the way down the street to his three o’clock. The side his target would be. He lifted his head. Adjusted his body. Turned the rifle. Looked through the scope, and placed his finger next to the trigger.

A low hum began as the burner vibrated on the mat.

The sniper lifted his left hand. Touched the earpiece.

“Are you in position?” A thick Afrikaner accent rang through the small mic.

“In position.”

“Do you see the target?”

“Not yet.” He moved his sniper a few inches left and right, monitoring the area where his target might be.

“Look carefully.”

Pulling his head away from the scope, the sniper glanced around at the surrounding buildings. His eyes lingered on a slightly open window in the opposite building. Lips parting, they released a steady breath. Refocusing on the scope, he inched the rifle further down the street, then froze. He saw it.

The black sedan with tinted windows and custom wheel caps screeched to a stop.

He watched as three men flooded out of the vehicle.

“I see him.” He shifted the rifle as he followed his subject through the scope, keeping the young man in the centre of his crosshairs.

“Wait.”

He watched his target fire at people across the street. “Permission to fire?”

“At will.”

The target turned, about to make a run when the sniper pulled the trigger. He groaned, pulled his head away, reloaded the gun, and brought his eye back to the scope.

“You missed.”

Shut up, he thought of saying, but swallowed it instead. His target had fallen to the ground when he found him again. He brought his finger to the trigger, then hesitated as a woman got in his way, blocking his shot.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t have a clean shot.”

“I don’t care, take it,” the Afrikaner yelled.

“I’m not killing a civilian,” the sniper barked.

“You’re not getting paid for your empathy, you’re getting paid to put a traitor in his place.”

“I think the contract was clear: only the target gets shot, no civilian casualties. So if you’re willing to put civilians six feet under for that, you can keep your money.”

A pregnant silence ensued. Then a sigh came through the line. “There’s no need to go there.”

The line was quiet for a moment.

“Do you have a shot now?”

“Almost. Civilian is helping the target up.”

“Take the shot in five, four, three, two,” the voice paused two seconds too long, “one.”

The sniper placed his finger in front of the trigger. Waited for a better shot as the civilian woman steadied the now limping target. The wind brushed against his cheek, tiggling his eye. He turned a dial a fraction and shifted the barrel a hair to the left.

“Take the shot.”

He aligned the scope’s crosshairs and adjusted the rifle’s position to account for the target’s changed position and wind resistance.

“Take the shot.”

“It’s not clean.”

“Take the shot!” the Afrikaner barked.

The sniper lined up the shot, exhaled slowly, then squeezed the trigger.  The recoil kissed his shoulder, everything jolting through the scope. With battered breath, he watched as his limping target moved ahead of the woman. “No,” he uttered before the bullet shot through the civilian’s body.

The woman collapsed; the man toppled with her. Seconds later, a young girl burst into the view of his scope, dropping to her knees at the woman’s side.

Focusing on the girl, he studied her face – then jerked back. Breath trapped in his throat.

“Take the shot!” the voice in his ear yelled. “Take the shot!”

“No.” Getting to his feet, the sniper exhaled. “You’re clearly watching, so take the shot yourself. I told you, no civilian casualties, so now you owe a life.” Light glinting in his eyes, he ducked, dropping back onto the mat. Plastered his eye against the scope. Reloaded. Shifted the rifle in the direction of the light shining from the opposite building. Saw the other scope. Another sniper. Tracking him. Squeezed the trigger. Reloaded and squeezed again. Tearing his eye from the scope, he exhaled. “Make that two lives.” He tore himself away from the rifle. Got to his feet. Jaw clenched. “And I’m coming to collect.” He pulled the earpiece out and crushed it beneath his heel.