Story Marksman: A Short Prelude

Marksman: A short prelude.

I can sense everything.
I can see the grass swaying in the wind, moving at exactly 8 miles per hour, according to my helmet sensors.
I can see the rain pouring down from the sky above, dripping off the trees surrounding me like honey off a spoon.
I can see the crosshairs of my Leupold 8x16 scope set on thermal imaging rise and fall with my breathing.
I can see the moonlight glinting off the barrel of your brand new Soviet-era AK-47 that you purchased from some black market arms dealers 48 hours ago.
I can hear you trying to barter for a higher price for this load of explosive chemicals you're passing off to a group of terrorists. Not the smartest thing in the world, mind you.
This is what being a sniper feels like. It can never be described through words only.
People have asked me what being a sniper is like. Usually, I give them the rudimentary answer. It's like being an artist. You can feel things. Like when a color is in the wrong shade, or an object is out of place.
You criminals always manage to evade the FBI investigators who come knocking at your door. Or the SWAT teams kicking them in. You're always one step ahead. Tell me, can you stay ahead of a .338 bullet traveling at 4,255 feet per second? I doubt it.
You think your buddies will hear you die, and investigate where the shot came from? I beg to differ. I custom built the suppressor attached to the end of my barrel myself. The gas exploding from the round will be lost in the rain. You, meanwhile, will be down. Permanently.
It makes me wonder why the hell you people even do this. You risk life and limb just to sell some stuff that results in a pretty explosion, and all you get out of it is money. It never ceases to amaze me. Ever heard of an honest job?
Well, my job isn't exactly honest either. For most people, it's put on the suit, jump in the car, and head to the office from nine till five. You get home, the wife has fixed dinner, and you can relax. Simple.
My job is anything but simple. My office is the woods around you. My car the helicopter I inserted in. My suit the special forces armor I'm wearing. My briefcase the .338 Modular Sniper Rifle I'm getting a sight picture on. My hours aren't set in stone. I'm on the clock whenever there's still scumbags like you in the world.
So here we are. Me against you. My rifle against yours. My accuracy against yours.
But you don't even know where I am. You don't even know that I'm here. If I blew your brains out with this MSR, right here, right now, you wouldn't know it was me. Your buddies wouldn't know where the shot came from, even if they noticed that you got dropped. Then, I'd move on to the next one. And the next one. And the next one, until you're all dead.
You want to sell weapons and explosives to be used against my teammates, my friends, my brothers? My fellow soldiers, or my neighbors, or my family? That's fine with me. You just have to deal with the consequences.
Now, if you'll excuse me, there are still scumbags like you in the world.
Time to get to work.

 

Thanks Evil your support is much appreciated.