I grew up in the "chains" as we call them. The mountains, the islands. If I wasn't at school, I'd leave for the most remote place. The highest. There is no freedom beyond that point, not any more than we need anyway. The trials and errors of my life, pain and accomplishments turned me into this. I don't feel safe or protected in any way in a city, and I don't mean this in a "cops don't serve justice they serve money" kind of way. They do justice to their position, that's for sure. I hate the fact that despite all the good intentions of the world, if you need help right now, it might take a while because they're humans. I carry, It's dangerous, but I carry, I make sure everybody around me carries.
I cultivated this lifestyle through the survival of the abominations of war, the constant degradation of my living conditions, and I know I'm blind, but the view from above is insane. I stand by what I said. I never meant to cross any lines, I was just walking and ended up on the other side of the ethics terrain. I got lost, but then I found what I was looking for. The Tarima were all utterly disconnected and secular, so I was looking for a family, thank the Lord, found it very early on.
The weapons talk to me. And I don't mean it metaphorically. They talk to me, I hear them. They tell me to point them at the nearest target and my arm rises. I live isolated to keep from harm. Both side. Not anybody should have to suffer for no reason, that's just inhuman. If I ever were to hurt someone I think I would end it all pretty quickly. Might as well, you know. Before I found my friends I wanted to shoot my own brains out in front of my parents to traumatize them but eventually I strayed from that morbid path. My love for weapons remained. I look through the scope, I maintain my position, I breathe in and out and I put it down. Helps me focus.
Ismael and Gloria will come tomorrow and with that, their end. I prepared so many traps, so many problems for them right at their arrival, they won't be able to whilstand it. But they have to suffer. Unfortunately. I remember the words of threats, those were not words of wisdom. I can't put it into words how I feel at the moment. Strained, anxious. Not fearful though. I know it's survival of the fittest here. From here on out, whatever comes at me must die, because Basil does not negotiate with anybody, rather he tells the tale of a couple that got stranded on an island and found a monster, an actual monster. He chased them and instead of opening his mouth and eat them, bullets flowed down like a waterfall and an arm holding a gun came out of it, shooting them with horrible surgical accuracy. There is no meaning to the tale to his victims of course. He tells that story to scare them. "Maybe I am the monster of the tale." That's what the hell it means to me. He could be anything for all I know. I've seen what he's able to do, just how long he can stay inside a tight place until the prey thinks they're safe enough to let their guard down. It all comes down to preparation and patience.
Just like now. What does it actually take to beat someone at their own game? I'm sure everyone in this field has their own strategies. But I like to take it thirty-five steps further. By satellite images or whatever else it might be, by a mole or some other mean to an end, they could know where I stand. But I'm not standing anywhere. They will come by the beach and when they do, the bullet will shatter one of them. Snipers usually come from above, like angels of death. But I'm a different breed of mercenary, and if I gotta die, I'll die as an angel from hell, not heaven.
I've made myself stuck in the sand, completely, barely able to move. The rifle is protected by a thick layer of anti-corrosive spray, and my gas mask is connected to an oxygen tank. Now, for the next five hours, I am the one and only hunter. You don't come into my territory expecting an open door. The beach looks like my domain is open for business, but I'm a tough client. And I take no credit card.
Ismael will use his brain and remember the days past, how I used to be so outgoing and talkative, that I've prepared the greatest and fanciest spectacle for them. But Basil doesn't choose normal people for normal missions. You want to kill the boss you'll fight the sidekick, the terror. The head of operations has insanity to share. I know you will make yourself visible, Ismael. You will render this battle impossible and then adapt the game to your style. I'm planning on winning, and if that takes me to my grave so be it.
Hours passed, not a movement. His watch ticks once, and he knows, it should be soon. And surely enough after this wait, it is in the dark that Mateni feels a few vibrations surrounding him. Slow steps right above his head. He draws the rifle near his forehead and stares up, eyes black. Index on the trigger, he compressed the air in his lungs, five intense seconds while blind, shot and blew away a part of Gloria's mouth, left side.
A pure reflexe sent her own weapon down to the exact place he was hiding in. Ismael understood the trick and circled back behind Mateni, shooting at the oxygen tank, desintegrating his body.
"Was it too easy? Is that it? All of you, take care of her. The rest, dig up."
One of the boats had a few shovels, old ones but functionning. They started digging up but there was nothing but blood, skin and some other body parts.
"I don't understand. Where is he? I don't get it!"
Thinking that I would die, huh? I'm already far ahead of you, Ismael. I was crawling back to my lair. I trained. Trained to use only one eye or no ear. Confined myself. No arm or no legs? No problem. The first shot was my gift. Like an insect I went back to my place. With that noise, the rebels I armed beforehand will cribble you. You should have acted a long time ago, old friend. You don't just let a monster grow so big, you shoot it down as fast as you can. Otherwise it will eat you.