The man glances at the tawny bullet in his hand. Designed for long distance and optimized for maximum damage. It is the primary cartilage of choice in this line of work. He admires the .300 Magnum bullet as he loads it into his .50 caliber anti-material rifle. He is nervous, but cautiously handles the automatic firearm. He wipes the weapon for the umpteenth time, checks it, loads the bullet and checks again. Finally, he assumes the prone position, a bipod supporting the long barrel, and the gun stock against his sweaty cheek.
The man rests his eye on the rifle binoculars, giving him a telescopic view of the backdrop. In the distance, the majesty of the sunset fills the horizon. The cloudy sky is a splendid yellow proceeding from the setting sun. The distant hills form a silhouette against the sunset. Slowly, the man adjusts his zoom to refocus closer, about one and a half miles away.
He scans the surroundings, observing the flurry of activities below. Palm trees swaying in the wind, glass skyscrapers reflecting the busy highways beneath, cars going to and fro, clamoring crowds lining up close to the main highway, military vehicles and personnel strategically securing a reserved lane. An important man is passing through.
The seemingly ordinary scenery is surreal. Mobs throngs excitedly along the highway, oblivious to what is about to happen. For a moment the man is haunted by guilt. He does not wish to disturb the sense of normality.
In the corner of the lens, a dark line emerges, hurtling along the reserved lane. It becomes distinguishable as it takes shape. It is the dark convoy of the important man. All the dozen SUVs are black, typical of most so-called important men. The man with the rifle scoffs. He reviles important men, especially government people.
As the convoy approaches, time slows. How did it get to this? He recalls serving in the army, part of the Malian troops deployed to Afghanistan. He recalls how he killed innocent women and children in the name of orders from above. Orders that senselessly labelled these women and children as terrorists.
When he decided it was enough, these government people betrayed him. They labelled him a deserter, and placed a kill order against him. They put up a bounty on his head, deployed a kill squad, and lied to his family that he was killed in action. His family must be devastated. Forced to hide, flee or fight for his life, he barely survived the Afghan wilderness. Had to fake his death to stay alive.
He is not a soldier anymore. He now works for a ruthless covert syndicate. His seething fury against the government and the guarantee of a two million dollar payday, or death in case of failure, fuel his adrenaline. He does not care about the sense of normality anymore, all guilt evaporates.
He zooms in on one particular SUV in the convoy, third from the front. It is sleek, with a delightful design and an enchanting contour. The Mercedes-Maybach is of imposing length, with its honey-comb grilles giving it an exclusive look. Its gleaming rims are made of polished silver, quite impressive. The important man sits at the back, behind tinted windows.
With eyes firmly fixed on the zoomed binoculars, the man tensely rests his index finger on the trigger. He watches the important man calmly conversing with the security detail to his right. The important man, President of Mali, is oblivious to what is about to happen.
The man pulls the trigger, fully aware of the stakes involved. If he hits his target, a man must die, if he misses, a man must die.
