to kill a man

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted
armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
—Ernest Hemingway

I don’t like manhunts—I’ve been on several in Afghanistan and they sicken me.

It may seem strange coming from an ex Special Forces member, but I’ve seen my share of killing and that’s why I’ve come home as a peacekeeper.

Having said all that, there are times when I’m asked to take a shot and I do—I’m a crack sharpshooter, and to me, it’s as easy as plunking a tin can on a fence—except it’s a man’s head.

I never go up and take a close look—I prefer a comfortable distance between me and death—but I can’t say the same for my fellow officers.

We’re in the New Hampshire woods tracking Barry Mere. He killed four civilians and two police officers—and those are the victims we know about—there may be others.

Barry’s a lot like me. He uses a high-powered rifle, and handles it skillfully. We figure he’s got an M4 Carbine and can hit targets from a fifth of a mile away.

We’re not sure what’s turned him into a serial killer, a remote sniper, but whatever it is, has made him a formidable foe.

With wood lore and survivalist training, he’s eluded capture several times—and that, coupled with long-range killing, makes him extremely dangerous.

We have orders to shoot on sight and if necessary, I will.

But the blood lust in some of the officers nauseates me.

Give someone a gun, and they want to use it—no matter which side of the law they’re on.

Kirstie’s my partner and feels the same way I do. Just because we’re SWAT, doesn’t mean we have to act like professional killers.

“You know some of these cowboys are just gonna take that shot,” she hisses into my ear.

We’re looking at the grim faced men in camouflage gear getting ready to move out.

The Commander’s briefing each two-man unit. He approaches us.

“When we get to the hot zone, you two take sector five on the map—he may be holed up on that ridge—there’s an old hunting shack up there.”

“Suppose he is,” I ask him, “are we going to try to use the crisis negotiating team to talk him into surrendering?”

He shrugs. “Preservation of life is our mandate, but he’s already killed four people—it’s unlikely he’ll surrender.”

“But if he does, we’ll follow protocol, right?”

“That’s right, Winslow—provided it doesn’t put us in danger.”

I nod and he moves on to the last group.

Kirstie looks at me pointedly. “Doesn’t sound too promising, for Mere, does it, Jake?”

I hoist my backpack onto my shoulders, “Nope, don’t sound like a day when nobody dies.”

We trudge for five miles through the woods. The Commander’s in the lead, using hand signals.

When we hit the hot zone, we all fan out to the assigned sectors—Kirstie and me begin the long trek up to the top of the ridge.

It’s a sweltering day—the temperature close to ninety degrees.

We make it to the top and lie on the grassy slope with our backs up against a huge sugar Maple. We try to catch our breath.

Kirstie takes out binoculars to scope out the shack.

“See anything?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

I’m staring up through patchwork spaces of tree branches at a clear blue sky above. It’s an idyllic setting.

“Do you ever wonder what makes these guys tick?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “I always figure they got a loose wire.”

“Yeah,” I laugh, “a guy cuts you off on the freeway and that’s the last thing you think about while giving him the finger.”

“I guess our default setting is to see everyone as normal, until they prove otherwise.”

She makes a good point and gets me to wondering about Barry—is he deranged, or just a cold-blooded killer?

What makes him different from the men in camouflage crawling up the ridge?

And what about me—how am I able to put a bullet through a man’s head as if shooting a melon?

Kirstie grabs me by the arm. “Hey, I saw some movement through the boards in that shack.”

I grab the binoculars and take a look. I see it too—a black shape, visible behind the wood slats.

“I’m going to get in closer. Cover me.”

Her eyes are huge and dark. “You sure you want to do that?”

I don't, but I don't see any way out.

I nod—more to reassure myself—shrug off my backpack and crawl forward on my belly.

To be continued

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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