46 Years From Dallas

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46 Years From Dallas by Bob Miller

It was still early but the man dressed in a cashmere overcoat, a Jon Green suit made from super 220 merino wool, and Ferragamo shoes watched and listened as the sounds of the new day could be heard approaching from the distance. With death there is usually more or less some resistance, but there would be none today.

The bolt-action M40 sat perfectly placed as they said it would be. Nothing had been left to chance. Nothing had ever been left to chance. Still, he very carefully checked to see if the round had been chambered, not wanting to disturb the weapon on the bubbled bipod with the bubble setting dead center.

Old Charlie had chosen an excellent telescopic site. The magnification was close to 40 and the lens looked to be close to 50mm. But Old Charlie, whoever he or she was, knew their business. The man had half expected one of the new German rifles for this job, but he was pleased with the M40.

Some shooters won't accept cold weather contracts, but he wasn't just some shooter, he was the best in the world, and he preferred the cold. In winter the badges are fewer and they are never as alert as they are between late spring and early fall.

He had no way of knowing, but he certainly hoped that the guy who would get the credit was in place and things went as planned.

There was no reason to believe they wouldn't go as planned. Actually, they should go even better this time than they had in Dallas. There had been nothing wrong with the Texas contract.

At least not with his part of the contract, but there were just too many eyes that had to be closed that should have never been involved. But that had been a problem for the guys at The Farm to deal with, and they had done so reasonably well he said to himself while watching the rent-a-cops on the roof of the building across the way change shifts.

To help him relax, he slid a stick of sugar free gum into his mouth.

As he was storing the wrapper in the pocket of the cashmere overcoat he whispers, "It looks like he's right on time. That's it, Sir, take one more step. Perfect." Then he takes a deep breath, and while slowly releasing it, he ever so slightly moves the index finger on his right hand. Then he says aloud, "You really should have given up smoking, Sir."

He takes out his cell phone, presses one number. The person who answers says, "Capitol Flowers." With a George Clooney smile, the man dressed in the cashmere overcoat, a Jon Green suit made from super 220 merino wool, and Ferragamo shoes said, "This is Alcran. You can send the flowers."