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A Man In The Cross Hairs

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He sits up high in the building,
The wind whipping at his back
The rifle sits in front of him,
Waiting,
Waiting to launch it’s precious cargo

His emerald green eye gazes through the glass,
A man rests in the crosshairs,
The target,
His finger wraps around the cold metal,
Pressed against the trigger,

A slight squeeze of the finger is all it takes,
A white hot bullet knifes through the air,
He pulls his eye away from the scope,
Fear engulfs his body,
As the bullet impacts,

He is thrown off his feet,
The rifle clatters to the ground,
Blood gushed from the wound in his chest,
He lays on the floor,
Up high in the building,

The wind gusts over,
The man in the crosshairs,
The target...





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