Page 25 of Doozer

Present Day

“REMEMBER TO CONTROL your breathing.” Taxi’s voice whispered in my earpiece. “Once you’ve lined up your shot, exhale normally,thenhold your breath.”

I pulled my eye away from the scope, trying my best to block out Taxi’s chatter. I wanted to tell him to shut up and stop breaking my concentration but speaking would have meant giving up my position. Plus, the stupid jerk was right. I had a bad habit of breathing through my shots and likely would have done so if he hadn’t reminded me. Of course, I’d never give him the satisfaction of telling him that.

We’d been running tactical training exercises in these damp, miserable woods all week, and although Taxi assured me I was making progress, I wasn’t so sure. Taxi said he’d never seen more “raw shooting talent” in anyone before, but I wasn’t so sure. Having my father as my first teacher, it was hard for me not to compare my skills to his. His shots were always clean as a whistle and I never saw him miss a target. Not even once.

“And make sure you don’t driiiiift,” my mentor sang softly, continuing his effort to rattle me. Not that I needed any help in that department. It had taken almost two hours of crawling on my belly through high grass to reach this spot. I was dressed in a Ghillie suit, with a fully loaded drag bag in tow. I was exhausted, cold, and most of all, nervous of missing my target.

“Oh, and Trouble. Would this be a good time to tell you that I can totally see you?” Taxi asked, smugly.

I had no idea if Taxi was telling the truth, but given that he was a decorated FBI marksman, and I’d never worn a Ghillie suit before, he likely was. For all I knew, I stuck out like a bunch of fucking broccoli. The camouflage suit only weighed five pounds, but with all its branches and covering, I felt like I’d been swallowed by a Christmas tree.

I did my best to block out Taxi’s distractions and the thoughts of my father, re-lined up my shot, took a breath, and exhaled. My finger barely covering the trigger as I calculated the precise moment to fire.

Thwack.

Before I could get my shot off, a paintball exploded against my right leg.

“Mother fucker!” I screamed and I looked down to see the branches covering my burning thigh splattered with yellow paint.

I’d taken enough shots during Taxi’s training exercises over the past week to know he’d fired this one from close range. Really close.

“Take your shot,” Taxi said calmly.

“I’ve been hit,” I replied.

“Are you dead or wounded?” he asked.

I sighed but didn’t answer. Another paintball exploded eight inches from my head, and there was no way Taxi missed by accident. I reset for my shot, controlled my breathing, and tried my best to concentrate on my target. A plush toy cat set on top of a high tree stump. I gently squeezed the trigger, and my stomach sank as the bullet missed its mark by at least six inches. My intended target taunting me with his big stupid orange face and dumb yellow grin.

“Shit,” I whispered, and awaited my punishment.

I didn’t have to wait long. This time, Taxi delivered a headshot, which didn’t so much hurt, due to the helmet I was wearing, but was humiliating, nonetheless. I turned my head toward the direction of the shot and could now see Taxi, dressed head to toe, in his own Ghillie suit, no more than ten yards to my right.

“How long have you been there?” I asked in utter disbelief, rising to my feet.

“Would it piss you off if I told you the entire time?” Taxi asked, grinning as he stood.

“How?”

“When you’d move, I’d move.”

“So, you saw me come out of the woods?” I asked

“Saw you, heard you, smelled you.”

“Shit,” I said in utter defeat.

“I told you before. There’s nothing I won’t do to protect President Garfield,” Taxi said.

“I hate that stupid cat,” I said.

“Andhehates Mondays,” Taxi replied before asking, “You know what I hate?”

“What?” I asked begrudgingly.

“Dead team members,” he replied.

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