Knuckles heard the call and settled in behind his weapon, staring unfocused at the rooftop to rest his eyes while waiting on the description of the vehicle. After it came, he said, “Anything unique? Any identifying characteristics?”
“Yeah,” Pike said. “Front right quarter panel is dark blue or black. It’s a replacement and stands out. We’re going to roll in five. You ready?”
“Roger. I got the ball.”
Knuckles raised his head to the scope, focusing on the exit from the airport. He’d meticulously constructed his nest to allow the weapon to rest on its own, naturally aiming into the kill zone. He wanted to take out as much human error as possible, leaving the weapon alone to work within its capabilities. Any twitch of muscle, any forcing of aim he worked to diminish. Even his heartbeat. The Dragunov wasn’t the most accurate rifle to begin with, and he couldn’t afford to miss by compounding the built-in error.
He saw a red vehicle exit and immediately dismissed it. Relaxing his left hand on a sock full of sand underneath the buttstock, he raised the scope a smidgeon and focused on the next vehicle. A white sedan.
He scanned for the quarter panel and saw it was dark. A different paint scheme. He felt his pulse quicken and took a long, slow breath like a yoga student, willing his adrenaline away.
“I have the target.”
He heard Pike acknowledge, but wasn’t listening, his mind moving to a different plane.
He squeezed the sock sandbag, forcing the barrel to drop and track on the right front tire. It was counterintuitive, but the farther away he took his shot, the better the chances of success. At this range, the vehicle was moving almost perpendicular to his line of aim, meaning he could aim at the tire head-on. The strike of the round would be a little high as the vehicle traveled forward and the tire gained ground from the time he pulled the trigger until the time the bullet struck, but he wouldn’t have to worry about leading from left to right, like shooting skeet.
The longer he waited, the more the vehicle would be moving parallel to him, and the greater the chance of error. Worst case, he would have to take the shot right in front of his position, where the road curved, leaving him to actually aim ahead of the tire in order to hit it. A recipe for introducing enormous human error.
As the barrel lowered something ticked in his brain. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he couldn’t ignore it. He relaxed the hand, raising the scope. He focused on the driver. And saw what it was.
“Pike, Pike, the vehicle is not correct. I have one man. A lone driver.”
“Okay, okay. Stand by. Target will be exiting soon.”
“No, I mean it’s the right vehicle, but there’s now only the driver. Nobody else. The vehicle fits. How many white sedans with a repaired right front quarter panel could be exiting the airport at this time?”
He heard Pike say something in his earpiece, but ignored it. He knew what had happened. They’d switched vehicles before leaving the airport to confuse any surveillance.
He tracked to the right, swinging the weapon in an arc, reaching the edge of his sandbag nest. He saw nothing but a large panel truck coming down the road, facing him head-on. Could that be it?
He focused on the cab, seeing two men. He knew the truck had never exited the airport. His mind working in overdrive, he sorted through the data, and remembered the flash of red he had ignored before.
He scanned back to the left and saw nothing. He swung back to the right and saw the panel truck was now in front of his position. Behind it was a red SUV that had been hidden by the panel truck, now revealed by the curve in the road.
He focused on the passengers and saw four, straining now to keep the scope centered on the vehicle as it traveled parallel to his position. The target.
He heard Pike requesting a SITREP, but didn’t have time to give out a detailed report. The vehicle would be out of range and into the Dahiyeh in a matter of seconds.
Rising to a knee, he rapidly dragged a sandbag to the right and slapped the stock of the weapon on top of it, now facing ninety degrees away from where he had planned. He settled behind the weapon and lowered the scope to the rapidly diminishing vehicle, sighting in on the right rear tire.
Due to the curve in front of his position, the road going away wasn’t as ideal as the road coming toward him. He would have to lead the tire some. The question was how much. The longer he waited, the less he would be forced to do so as the road began to wind perpendicular to his line of aim. But the longer he waited, the farther the vehicle moved and the greater the chance it would be outside the accuracy envelope of his beat-up Dragunov. Especially now that he would be introducing human error as he locked the scope onto the tire with muscles alone in his hastily reconstructed sniper nest.
All of these facts flitted through his mind in a nanosecond, none achieving any dominance. They were simply instinctive, like the millions of inputs a hawk receives diving at a mouse. He focused on the task, calming his body down and manipulating the rifle so he was working with it instead of forcing the shot, seating it as best he could into the sandbag.
He settled the crosshairs just inside the rear tire’s rim, giving him the largest cross section to work with as a margin of error for the vehicle’s forward travel. Watching it shrink with each passing second, he took a deep breath and let it out, the air escaping like a pinhole in a balloon. He was conscious of the reticle slightly bouncing in time with the pulse of his blood. Conscious of a steady breeze against his cheek. Conscious of all the outside influences on the path of his bullet, but he trusted his subconscious to adjust, minutely correcting his aim to ensure success. It was a skill cultivated over a lifetime. He caressed the trigger, lightly pulling it to the rear with a feather touch.
His eyesight slightly unfocused on the edges, the tread of the tire in stark relief in the magnification of the scope, he was startled when the weapon bucked in his hands. As he knew he would be.
He settled the scope and saw the vehicle weave, then pull to the shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard Pike shouting into the radio.
In a monotone, he said, “Break, break. Target is neutralized. I say again, target is neutralized. Past my position. Red SUV with four males inside. Original vehicle’s location is unknown.”
“Is it the right vehicle?”
Knuckles smiled, the question hitting home. He’d just made one of the toughest shots he had ever been called upon to do, and even he wasn’t sure if he’d hit the right target.
“I have no idea. That’s your part of the job.”