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Firearms:
Ian lazed in the back of his pickup, jacket propped under his head, breaths deep and far between. One arm rested on his chest, the other lay atop his rifle. He'd spent the morning cleaning and polishing the tool of his trade, now it was time to take a repose in the afternoon sun.
The tiniest piece of dirt could jam the rifle, and when you have one chance screw-ups could end in tragedy. Not an effective way to move up sniper ranks.
It didn't matter how many guns you had, it only took one bullet.
One bullet per bad guy. He wasn't a god.
No matter what the rumours said. Bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda indeed.
Colby certainly was entertaining. He could always tell an Afghan soldier by the looks they gave him.
Afghanistan. That place was responsible for his sniper legend and a bullet-scar on his right hip. War wasn't his preferred hunting ground. And he disliked sand. It got everywhere.
Including his rifle.
Which meant cleaning it before every important shot, and at least once a day.
Twice if someone didn't secure a tent door.
Not that he didn't still clean his rifle regularly and before a shooting, providing he had the time.
Hence why he'd spent the morning cleaning and polishing his rifle. Now, with the sun overhead, he planned on catching a few hours sleep till he headed back to Quantico.
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Okay, that's two up. Only (glances at prompt list) 41 more to go. Although it'll probably be more as I keep adding more to the list.
Next prompt is... pancakes? Where the heck am I digging these up from?
Desert Thief
