One Shot (Ruby Rose/Adele fan fic)

THREE

After a two-hour flight in a Stealth Black Hawk we rappelled down to a beach near Kino's Bay before dawn. Then I snuck in the beach hut, I reached the roof without trouble and I found a comfortable position; I calibrated my M95 and waited. It's been four hours and the sun is high in the sky now, it's starting to get hot but at least people seem to be waking up in the house finally. I spot some armed men here and there through the windows and two girls that seemed to be doing the housekeeping are now setting a breakfast table for several people near the swimming pool. There's not much security in this place anyway, Miguel seems very confident. He probably thinks that nobody will dare to attack him here in his territory. I smile amused while leaning my cheek on my rifle' stock... he doesn't know how wrong he is.

SEALs are here even if I can't see them. They're supposed to reach the house in less than two minutes after I shoot Mr. Rivera, find the girl or girls and take them to the beach where a helicopter will pick us up again. It will be a fast and easy job, at least in theory; we'll see... I sigh and I focus on my rifle' scope. This is the most difficult part of being a sniper: waiting for hours, focused on your target trying to stop your mind from wandering around, doing constant mental calculation about wind speed and distance, still and keeping a stable heart rate. I aim my scope sight to the open French doors waiting for my enemy to leave the house for breakfast. There's more and more movement, two men are coming down the stairs next to what it looks like a pool house and then they light a cigarette leaning on the lower terrace railing. From there, there's a path fringed by palm trees and cactus that ends at the hut where I'm lying on. They talk and smoke looking casual and relaxed. "Amateurs," I mutter with contempt.

I focus on my target again, someone is moving near the doors... Two blondes leave the house, young and pretty, gesturing anxiously while talking to each other and laughing hysterically wearing tight dresses, makeup, jewels and high heels. It's obvious that they're high. To be honest they look ridiculous dressed like that here at the sea side. A cute brunette follow them wearing similar clothes but she seems calmer, she keeps her head low focused on her thoughts and she sits down on a chair far from the head of the table. Finally, flanked by two men that laugh at his comments, Miguel Rivera himself shows up. I recognize him from the report picture: 50 years old, medium height, heavily built, brown eyes, moustache and dark hair combed back to hide an early baldness. He's wearing a blue Ralph Laurent polo shirt with khaki pants, drug traffickers with white linen suits Miami Vice style have gone out of fashion long time ago. Rivera takes his place on the head of the table and drinks his orange juice like he doesn't have a single concern in his life.

Now I can see my teammates taking positions: one boot pokes out behind a black jeep parked on the beach, there's movement behind some big pots with leafy plants on one side of the house and two SEALs are walking stealthily along the wall of the lower terrace while the smokers get distracted when someone calls them from the house. They haven't noticed anything. We're radio silent so I'm waiting for a sign to shoot. One of the soldiers gets close to the terrace access stairs and hides behind the railing, indicating his comrade behind him to bend down with a wave of his hand. Then, the team chief lifts slightly his arm with a closed fist. "Hold it," I translate in my mind. I check my rifle's calibration and the wind force, I adjust my cheek on the stock and I rub gently the trigger. I'm ready.

Raising his head slightly the soldier analyses the situation on the terrace before placing his hand on his neck: "Hostages." One of the blondies that we came for has left the table and chats lively with the two men, it's better for us since they're facing her and have their backs turned to the SEALs. The team chief indicates quietly that two members of the crew need to go up the stairs and eliminate the smokers while the rest of the team will climb the next flight of stairs to kill the other two that are having breakfast. "That's if I don't shoot them before," I think while looking at the SEAL with his two fingers up. Finally, he forms a circle with his thumb and index and he places them on his eye, imitating a rifle scope: "Sniper, that's me, the one and only." My finger doesn't rub the trigger anymore, now it's placing firmly on it. Mr. Rivera chews his croissant while I have him in range, my barrel pointed at his head. Out of the corner of my eye I look at the soldier... he lifts his arm and waves his hand quickly: "Let's go!" I pull the trigger.