For MamaBirdCat. A story challenge featuring Low Light.
The Usual Disclaimer: don't own not making a profit
The Road Goes on Forever: The Highwaymen
Chapter Thirty Seven
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
0600
Between the pain, the thunder, and his own insomnia, the alarm didn't have a chance to blare before Low Light turned it off. It was a minute before six AM. Across from him Low Light could see Trick Shot staring. The kid had as many questions in his eyes as Low Light did at his age. He couldn't offer any answers. He spent the night cleaning and calibrating his scope instead. The last leg of the competition would start in the morning and the rain was still coming down. He had to prepare. It seemed like the road he was on went on forever. It had to stop. He put his M110 SASS in its case and went outside.
Tonight the stars were hidden. They were stuck behind black clouds that dropped rain on his eyelids. He looked up. Behind him was Fort Rucker and his career. Ahead of him was a salvation he hoped to give to Trick Shot. It was too late for him. Low Light took a deep breath and disappeared.
There was no going back now.
From the moment Low Light met Pete on the grounds of the Pit he knew the risks he was taking. Pete Anderson deserved his name. He was a legend for good reason. He had more kill shots than anyone could count. Some were legal and some were black bag operations but each time Pete hit his mark. He seemed to reach down like the Hand of God and choose who would live and who would die. His hits exceeded Low Light's before he dropped out.
The man simply vanished.
There were rumors and then there was lore. Over the years God was alive and well in South America living on the beaches of Belize. Other times he was seen in Africa and then again in Afghanistan. Some said he died by a sniper with a grudge. It took a sniper to kill a sniper they said. Then again there was speculation that Low Light and God were one and the same. Their styles were alike and they were both as equally unseen and mysterious. They only gave a rare glimpse. The ones that said so would swear on a stack of bibles they were telling the truth. By then he became a legend.
The reality was Pete Anderson couldn't let go. The target was in his blood. He spent decades with his wife Emily raising their three daughters in a suburb outside of Washington DC. By some faulty obligation he thought he owed her that much. He was never happy. It showed in his marriage. When the last of his daughters was raised Emily filed for divorce. Pete Anderson was a washed up divorced ex-sniper with nowhere else to go. His glory days were over.
It seemed like the sun was setting on him. He didn't want to let go. He would do anything to get it back.
And when P.J. Knight approached him for a new television series called American Sniper Pete didn't hesitate. His eyes were gone by then but he could still spot. On the circuit no one recognized him. It was just as well. He was embarrassed to admit that was what he was relegated to. The man known as God was following a made-for-TV Marine sniper with too good of looks and even less talent.
It took six years but when Pete Anderson met Low Light he knew he had his chance. His apprentice had a student of his own now and he was the best God had seen in twenty years. The kid was a natural. The scope was a bonus. He set his sights on both. And when God set his sights he never missed. He spent the night cleaning and calibrating his scope. He had to. Low Light was just too good. The rain on his RV didn't let up until sunrise. It peeked through the blinds casting grey shadows on his face. He put his Barrett M90 in its case and went outside.
Trick Shot couldn't afford the luxury of nostalgia. He was 22 and the only sniping rifle he held was his training rifle and the Knight KA 120. Between the two he knew the KA 120 the best of all. He still remembered when P.J. Knight handed it to him. It was meant for Low Light. His instructor refused to take it. That left Michael Dixon. When he held it Low Light looked up.
"You keep it. You'll have to learn to shoot it eventually." He said. "It's a good rifle."
The former M.A.R.S. sniping rifle was now the Knight KA 120. It was far superior to God's Barrett M90 and even Low Light's M110 SASS. The difference lay in the men that used them. One was a legend. One was the best. And one was a natural.
Trick Shot walked to the starting line where Vorona met him. She shared the same KA 120 as he did. She met him at the production tent handing out Styrofoam cups of black coffee. She yawned and took a sip. Today it would be the two of them knee deep in mud and ten miles of the hills and woods of Fort Rucker. It was November. That meant that the terrain was cold. The pine needles of Alabama would shed and lay down a carpet of sap from Fort Rucker to the Gulf Coast of Mobile. Neither of them was ready for it.
Vorona took her spot carefully. As Trick Shot's spotter and the senior sniper for GI Joe she had a lot to prove. She gave a back glance to General Hawk and Beachhead before the beginning timer started. She didn't see Low Light. She took off in comfortable jog a hundred and twenty yards before she met the woods. That was where the danger was. She slowed as soon as they were on the trail. Trevor Jack and God would be waiting for them. They could take their shot as soon as they saw them or they could take their time watching and waiting while Vorona and Trick Shot followed the path. Vorona had a hunch they would wait. An easy kill would be boring. It would be the end of the series. No, what the director wanted was action and suspense that kept the audience watching. She kept her eyes sharp.
They hiked until they crossed a concrete bridge that crossed a river so shallow it should have been called a creek. The drop was only five feet and the expanse was three feet wide. Below them unknown fish darted and retreated at their shadows. That was where the trail ended. Before them the woods took a steep six percent grade leading to a limestone cairn that would lead them to the finish line. That was where Vorona stopped.
As a sniper nothing was this easy.
They were setting them up.
She lifted her head. Trick Shot put down his rifle. The entire situation felt wrong. He made a question with his eyes when the stock hit him. He fell watching the fluted barrel as it came down on him. Vorona didn't get the chance to scream before she was taken out of commission. God reached back and put the Barrett back on his shoulder. The apprentice of his prodigy lay with his face in a pile of leaves and grass. He would have to do something about that. He tied Trick Shot's feet and wrists together giving a loose knot at his neck.
The real game was on. Low Light could either give up his scope or give up his kid. Pete Anderson banked on the kid. As much as he denied it God could tell Low Light was protecting Trick shot.
"He's not my kid, Pete."
He said that more than once.
"Bullshit. They all are once you take them in." God said.
He would know.
Trick Shot lay motionless and helpless on the bottom of a tour bus with his wrists and feet tied behind him. No matter how hard he tried the more he struggled the more he choked himself. At the wheel God didn't pay attention. His wipers were on full blast and the rain came through a crack in the window where he blew white smoke from his cigar. The kid was nice and secure behind him. But more importantly the kid had his scope on him. It sat out of reach in a drink holder at God's right hand. God didn't look concerned. He sang and smoked his cigars driving down highway 95 towards Titusville Florida. That was where they would meet.
God looked behind him. Trick Shot was awake.
"Hey no peeking" God laughed.
He took out a can of knock out smoke and sprayed it in his face.
Trick Shot was asleep before he knew it.
It was up to Vorona to make the long arduous journey back to the starting point. How long she was out she didn't know. Her watch was gone. Her head hurt and the side of her face was swollen where it met her brow. She shook it off. The woods and pines looked down on her. She stood up and cleared her head. Trick Shot was nowhere to be found. Their sniping rifles and her scopes were gone. The only thing Vorona had was her boots and her sense of direction. In two miles she would meet the cairn. She started to jog. If she was a target she didn't care. The faster she could make it to the starting line the faster she could tell General Hawk what was going on. She slid on some skree before she got to her feet. The cairn was directly on her right throwing a single sliver of light towards the West. That meant that it was close to noon. Vorona ran faster. It would take her another two hours before she made it to the starting line. By then God would have a six hour head start. At night he would have the advantage with Low Light's scope. She knew that in the night she would become less than a hunter than the hunted.
That was Low Light's territory.
Back at the tent Beachhead paced. The rain stopped hours ago leaving the canvas heavy with water. The roadies for the Military History Channel busied themselves pushing the tent up with poles until the sides were slick. Where it fell it left deep trenches of mud. The director warned them that if it started up again they would have to stop filming. That was fine with Beachhead. Low Light had been missing for eight hours and the competition wouldn't end for another four. He looked out at the woods for what seemed like the millionth time. Each time it never changed. The yellow tape still hung limp at the staging area. The giant banner with the word START was bent until only the word ART showed. He looked back and paced some more.
It was Vorona that came crashing through. Her boots up to her knees was caked in dirt. There was a rip in her shirt at the elbow. Her hands were covered with micro sized abrasions from whipping through pine trees. Half of her face was swollen. Her eyes were black and blue with one shut. She was running as fast as she could. The director yelled for a go before three cameras focused in on her. Vorona didn't pay attention. She ran past them. She had one target and one target only. The production crew stood up from their chairs.
Mary didn't know what hit her before Vorona reached back and punched her in the jaw.
It was all caught on film.
In the end it took both Beachhead and General Hawk to pull the female sniper off of the make-up artist. She was screaming something in Czechoslovakian that didn't take much imagination to figure out. Beachhead had to physically lift her from the ground before she stopped. Her feet kicked in air before she pointed her finger.
"He took him! He took Trick Shot!" She said.
She collapsed against General Hawk's chest.
In Florida P.J. Knight smiled. The white Queen and her white Rook sat to the side of the chess board taken out of the game. His black Knight stood facing General Hawk's white Knight. The other one stood dangerously close to a death blow.
All it would take was one move.
There were only three pieces left on the board: Trick Shot, Low Light, and Pete Anderson: aka God.
End Chapter Thirty Seven
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
by Ennio Morricone