Page 2 of Shane

“Thanks,” he told the man who was probably his one and only friend.

“No thanks necessary. Okay, again, reference the farthest bag to your left. Bottom of the stack. That rounded, black bump at ground level is the tip of our friendly assassin’s boot. From that point, adjust a half meter to your two o’clock. Wait for it.”

“Waiting,” Shane breathed evenly, the adjustment made, the tip of the boot accounted for, and his universe narrowed down to whatever Carl said next. For now, Shane was looking at a round circle of empty space a half meter at his two o’clock, which put his aim barely above the stacks of concrete. He counted his heartbeats, and let his mind relax in what snipers called‘bubble compartmentalization’, the ability to block everything in the world but his spotter’s next command.

He didn’t wait long. When the barest edge of that olive-green shemagh rippled above the stack, Carl ordered, “Send it.”

Shane’s right index finger depressed the ribbed curl of his rifle’s trigger, and sent a .308 Lapua round on its way. “Sent.”

“Direct hit,” Carl confirmed through his rangefinder. “Assassin down. Let’s move.”

Shane didn’t look for the body of the man he’d just tagged or the red mist a head shot incurred. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t care. Sniping wasn’t sexy or cool like Hollywood made it seem. It was hard, dirty work, simply a necessary evil that hard men did in a world full of depraved and unnecessary cruelty. Whatever role that Taliban soldier had played in his family, home, or mosque was now just another bloody footnote in the story of Shane’s life.

With this kill, his role of‘guardian angel’was officially over. He’d decided. A smart man didn’t need to see blood on the tarmac to know what he’d done. And Shane had done enough.

Together he and Carl stowed their weapons, gathered what little gear they’d brought with them, and dropped like shadowy wraiths behind the opaque, wind-buffeted plastic to ground level. Shane’s boots had no sooner hit the concrete when Carl’s radio squawked an incoming.

“Good shooting, boys,” USMC Sergeant James ‘Rowdy’ Wayne relayed. “Had my eye on that asshat all morning. Just a bad vibe, you know, but damn, you were right. The fucker had three weapons on him, two pistols under his shirt, one in his belt. He’d just taken aim when you ended him. He was gunning for the foreman, who’s a father of three little kids, damn it!”

“Glad we could help,” Carl replied, his tone as emotionless as Rowdy’s was amped.

“That Hayes working with you? Was this his work?” Rowdy wanted to know. “Fuck, I’d like to meet that man someday.”

“Could be.” Carl gave nothing away. Sniping wasn’t about setting records or one-upmanship. Shane never wanted to be another Chris Kyle. He didn’t want the notoriety. He’d joined the Corps simply to replace the man whose USMC career he’d cut short. This was his way of paying back. Or forward. Whatever.

“Well, hell. Tell whichever USMC bastard took that shot thanks from all us guys!” Rowdy exclaimed. “Whoever he is, he’s one helluva guardian angel. Glad he’s on our side.”

“Copy that,” Carl replied smoothly as he stuffed the radio into his gear bag. “You got time for a beer before you take off?”

“Sure.” Shane had no more than answered when Carl’s radio squawked again.

“Shit. Clinton,” Carl cussed. His chest heaved as he tugged the entire radio out of its Velcro pouch on his hip, hauled back, and smashed it into the concrete. “Oops,” he growled as plastic pieces flew. “Guess they don’t make Velcro like they used to.”

“Yeah, but that radio’ll still work,” Shane told him. “It’s ruggedized. Better pick up the pieces and face the music.”

“Not as far as it fell, it won’t. Didn’t you notice? It dropped all the way down, from the top of the scaffolding. Dropped like a rock, and shit if I’m apologizing to that pompous prick for not filming you kill that jerk.” Carl landed a solid kick that sent the battered radio into one of the many concrete barricades erected to ensure airport security. “You saw it slip. I’ll swear to it, and so will you, but no way I’m picking up those pieces.”

Grabbing Shane by the back of his neck, he pointed back the way they’d come. “Besides, live-action shots would identify you to anyone who’d view that clip. What if the Taliban got hold of it? They’d be hot on your ass, and you don’t need shit like that.”

Hard to argue with an intelligent man. “Clinton’s a prick. I’m done. My contract expires today, and I’m not re-upping.”

By then, they were at their MATV, their MRAP All-Terrain Vehicle. “I’m gonna miss you, kid,” Carl admitted. “But I’m sure glad you’re leaving this shithole behind. About time.”

“Yeah,” Shane replied, his eyes forward but his heart already in the air somewhere over the Atlantic. “How many days for you?”

“Twenty-one, and trust me, I’m counting the hours. I’ll look you up as soon as I’m home. After I spend a couple months with my wife and kids, that is.”

“See that you do. I should be settled in by then.”Somewhere. I hope.

“You got a good job lined up?”

Shane shook his head. He knew a guy but asking this particular man for a job wouldn’t come easy. Not this job. Not that guy.

“Any plans? Any leads?”

Shane opted for diversion. “Yeah. Not to be here.”

Wasn’t that the truth? He had nothing to look forward to but leaving Afghanistan behind, and the only thing on his to-do list was finally facing the man whose life he’d ruined. Because that was what he’d done all those years ago. It was time to go back and face the music that had been playing since that day in Alexandria, Virginia.

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