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The Sniper Continues

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He stared down at his brother’s bloodied face in shock, in utter horror. He felt the urge to scream, but knew that it would only get him killed. Looking down, open-mouthed, the man slowly backed away, when he heard the familiar rumble of an armored car coming from behind him.

Slowly, the sniper turned around, hands raised in the air, dropping his shotgun, and quickly kicking it away with his foot. An attractive young woman leaped out of the car, pointing her gun at his head. “Get in the car!”

When the man hesitated, she shot a bullet past his head, nearly hitting him. “Did you hear me soldier? Get in the car! We’re in a war zone. You got that?”
The woman’s voice was beautiful and deep. Her short hair was spiky on her head, framing her small, pixie-like face. She was short and thin, no fat, only muscle, her long arms stiff holding the gun. Even though she was small and a woman, he was intimidated. More shots rang out.
He got in.
Two other men sat in the car, both carrying heavy machine guns. One was small and had red hair. He had the same build as the woman, but his face was more tense, his eyes hard; he was young, maybe seventeen. The other was older, around forty, and had a stocky build, with curly black hair, and cold eyes. He looked as if he wanted to kill the sniper.
John watched helplessly as the two men seized a bloody handkerchief and tied it around his head skillfully; then, they grabbed a rope and tied his hands behinds his back, so tightly that they began bleeding. The car had thick walls, but John could still hear all of the gunshots outside. He felt like he wanted to puke as the car went over a large bump.
The others were quiet as mice being stalked by cats.
After maybe an hour, they came to a stop. John felt two hands grab him by the shoulders and drag him out of the car and into the dirt. It was surprisingly cold as he groaned in pain, wondering if he would ever get back home to his children. His wife had been murdered, stabbed to death the police reports said; the murderer had never been caught.
The same rough hands picked him up again and took him into a building, which he knew because of the slamming door and burst of even colder air. The woman removed his blindfold as two guards with machine guns came in; the woman nodded, and he was taken into a prison cell.
The walls were thin, and he could hear everything around him. A small and uncomfortable cot with a toilet were the only things in the room. No blanket, not even a window for light. Only a small light bulb that was nearly dead hung from the ceiling, hope in the middle of war, providing a small comfort to the sniper. He sat down when a small, cold bowl of oatmeal slid into the room through the cat flap in the door that was so tiny that he doubted any kitten could use it. He quickly ate the oatmeal; it was disgusting, and he almost couldn’t eat the thing, which had been his only food since that stale sandwich.
Suddenly, voices rang out from the room behind him. John sat down on the cot and pressed his ear to the wall. He heard the woman, who a man called Jezebel, speaking. From what he could hear, it sounded like she was making an argument to kill him. A man tried to calm Jezebel down, and suggested that they could make use of him. Then, three voices, Jezebel’s and two men’s began shouting all at once.
They all wanted to kill him.
He looked around for something to get him out, a chisel or a shovel. Then he found it, a small hole in the wall, through which he could see light. He dug around in his pocket for his knife. He began his escape.
After about an hour, he had made barely any progress. He sat down on the cot and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Then, the door opened.

“We need your help.” Jezebel spoke softly.

So they needed a spy, and he agreed to do it. John would tell them where the republicans hid, and then help kill them. And in this way, his partnership with his enemies began.



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