Patriot, M.A. Rothman [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

late-evening event. There was going to be chaos when this went down.

Perfect.

At the gates of the palazzo, the organizers had erected a large portable platform with a podium in the middle, allowing a perfect view for the crowd. The very idea of being shoved up against so many people made him nauseous. It was hard for him to even imagine why people from all walks of life would willingly subject themselves to that… just to listen to one person speak.

Three Minutes.

The platform was bathed in light, but outside the reach of the spotlights, there was some motion. Cloaked in the darkness of the Italian summer night, two statues depicting soldiers riding horseback bookended the platform, and at the base of each statue were armed guards. The mayor was a popular figure in the city, and the growing crowd was excited to have a chance to see her in person. This made him feel like this job was worth it. It was a good beginning to his coming out party.

People began clapping, and it was time to stop admiring the scenery and get to work.

Laying prone on the rooftop, he peered through his scope and spotted movement in the cordoned off area. The mayor’s two bodyguards were escorting her from the canopy-covered pavilion toward the platform. The guards were both carrying what looked like H&K MP5s, basic nine-millimeter submachine guns. The mayor climbed up onto the platform and walking leisurely to the podium, waving at the crowd as she went. It seemed as if she was trying to wave at each individual person who came to see her. Through the scope, he could almost see the smile on her face as the crowd responded to her presence with ever-louder cheering.

With the new MK13 sniper rifle he’d acquired, he’d been so concerned about the noise, he not only was using a suppressor, but had loaded the 190 grain rounds for a subsonic flight downrange. He smiled as the crowd cheered. With the kind of noise they were making, nobody was going to hear anything.

As the mayor climbed up to the podium, stepping into the spotlight, she stopped and blew a few kisses to the crowd.

One Minute.

She motioned for the crowd to settle down, and the crowd went on for a little longer, despite her wishes. The mayor was clearly loved by her constituents. As the cheers slowly faded, the mayor took a deep breath.

He glanced at the flags, and at that moment, they lay limply against the flagpole.

Go time.

Peering through the scope, he placed the buttstock firmly against his shoulder, and rested his finger on the trigger.

She began talking into the microphone on the podium, and her voice carried across the plaza and through the darkness beyond. Her voice reached him as he measured his heartbeats.

The mayor’s voice had a dulcet tone, mature, but with a youthful energy driving her words, which he couldn’t understand.

Having already adjusted the scope for the distance, he placed the crosshairs on the woman’s forehead. Feeling the pulse of his heartbeat, it felt almost as if time slowed. Each beat of his heart pushed blood through his body, and every-so-slightly imparting a wobble in his aim. To compensate, he waited. Waiting for the pause between heartbeats, his aim recovered from the almost imperceptible wobble, and when it felt perfect, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle immediately bucked back against his shoulder.

It took less than two seconds for the bullet to travel through the barrel, over the heads of the crowd, and slam into the mayor.

She dropped as if she were a marionette and someone had cut her strings.

He paused for a second, a feeling of disappointment growing within him as the first cries of uncertainty came up from the crowd. It was supposed to have been a much more gruesome shot.

Glancing at the flags, he frowned and replayed the shot in his mind. He missed his mark, that was obvious. It was supposed to have been a forehead shot. But instead… there must have been a slight downdraft. More than likely, he got her just below the jawline, severing her spine.

He began rapidly disassembling his weapon, placing it back into its custom guitar case. Within fifteen seconds, he was done. He blew a kiss to the screaming crowd and raced toward the stairs.

“Looks like I need more practice.”

Connor Sloane’s mouth burned from the mango habanero wings he’d been eating and chuckled as his two former co-workers from the CIA struggled with the heat as well. “I’m glad to see you guys are enjoying it.”

Blonde-haired Christina wiped her mouth and panted for effect. “I can’t believe you talked us into trying these wings from hell. ‘They’re sweet, you’ll like them,’ he says. This is stupid hot. I think you’ve made me hate mango. Why do you eat this?”

With his mouth full, Connor said, “What can I say, I’m not that big into drinking, and this stuff gives me a buzz.”

“I agree with Chris,” John interjected. “I know since you got that transfer, we don’t see much of you anymore, but if this is on the agenda next time, I’ll have to pass.”

It was a Friday night, and this time Connor had picked the spot for their monthly meetup. It was his regular hangout and had everything he ever wanted in a place: wings, the football game, and a happy hour which tended to bring in a fair number of single women. They’d taken a corner table and were mostly left alone to people watch, suffer from the spicy wings, and catch up with each other’s lives.

Connor wiped his mouth with a napkin, his lips tingling from the spice. “How’s Pennington these days? Have things gotten better or is he still the same old pain in the ass?” It took everything he had not to burst out laughing as the two of them turned and gave him identical glares.

With an annoyed expression, Christina swiped a few stray hairs from her cheek and then finger-combed her thick hair