—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, it 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 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 the negative 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 nod—more to reassure myself—shrug off my backpack and crawl forward on my belly.
After about ten minutes of crawling through long grass, I’m close enough to make out his features—it’s Mere all right. He’s using his scope to sight and track the slowly advancing officers.
I inch forward and make it to the wall of the shack.
I’m right beside a doorway and the door’s ajar.
Since Mere’s focused on the advancing SWAT team, I figure I can easily surprise him from behind.
I have no other plan—just swing in through the doorway, and order him to freeze. Shoot, if he refuses.
Simple and basic.
I take a deep breath and barge in.
He’s standing, waiting for me. Somehow, he must have heard or sensed me coming.
There’s this moment when we both freeze staring down each other’s gun barrel.
Neither of us shoots.
“What’s it gonna be?” he drawls, almost casually. “I shoot you, or you shoot me?”
“It’s over Mere—there’s a team of officers out there—either way, it ends here.”
“Mebbe—but then again, I don’t have anything to lose.”
“Why’d you do it?” I ask, hoping to get him talking—to build a bridge.
He smiles cynically. “I’m a hunter—got tired of four legged game.”
“You kill people for sport—for the thrill of it?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, that’s about it. They should have let me joined the force—that’s what I really wanted—but they turned me down.”
“You wanted to be a cop?”
“That’s right. I was damned good—a crack shot—in perfect shape. They say I failed the psychological testing.”
“So, this is how you’re getting back at the system—taking revenge?”
“I suppose. I just wanted to do what you’re doing—track down criminals—use my skills. I don’t think we’re much different.”
“You made your point, Barry—you proved you’ve got the skills. Why go on?”
“They’re just gonna lock me up, put me on trial and execute me.”
“You can get a lawyer. Personally, I think you just lost it and went crazy. You don’t have to die.”
He looks at me narrowly, as if sizing me up.
“What’s your name?”
“Jake—Jake Winslow.”
“Where’d you get your training?”
“In the forces—I was stationed in Afghanistan.”
He nods as if my explanation confirms something he was thinking.
“They need guys like us, Jake—guys to go out and do the killing for them.”
“I know. I’ve thought of that a lot.”
“You got your chance. I didn’t get mine.”
“I know, but this isn’t the answer.”
“Then what is? What am I gonna do?” This is all I know—all I want. I’m a hunter, Jake—just like you.”
He’s right. There’s no way out—for him, or for me.
“Tell you what I’m gonna do, Jake. I’m gonna count to three and we’re both gonna fire. Whoever’s left standing wins.”
“That’s dumb, Barry. Neither of us is gonna miss.”
“That’s my point, Jake. That’s why we’re both alike. It can’t end any other way.”
He looks at me and smiles—a charming, boyish, lop-sided grin—and I wish it were different. I wish there were some other way out.
As I stare at him I hear a single shot and watch a black hole appear in the center of his forehead.
He slumps and collapses as if deflated. His body topples slightly forward and his head ends up almost touching my boot.
Blood oozes from the hole in his forehead.
I feel nauseous. I turn and make it outside the doorway where I double over and puke.
Kirstie’s beside me, holding my arm, consoling me.
And then, men in camouflage suits surround us.
One of the men, a young, blonde, crew-cut guy, is smiling ear to ear.
“I made him and squeezed off the shot. It was textbook.”
The others backslap or high five him—they have a grudging admiration for skill.
Kirstie and I stand aloof from the circle of hunters around the body.
The chase is over. The target acquired and subdued.
“A good kill,” the Commander smiles.
The men are happy. They’ve spent their day fulfilling their duty—hunting down corruption and waste.