A Target's Love

Prologue

The boy looked down at the weapon in his trembling hands, and then glanced back up at his father. Call him a wimp, but in a surprisingly, non-clichéd situation such as this one, what was he to do? Retaliating was out of the question. He was too young to die.

"Please don't make me do this," He pleaded.

"You have to, son. I'm so sorry, but as my eldest male child, I'm afraid you have no choice."

"I'm only fourteen years old! You can't make me do this for the rest of my life!"

Lately, he'd been obsessed with violent, virtual games. He'd enjoyed the feeling of control; he'd enjoyed knowing he could end someone's life if he wanted to. Funny, he liked to hear things being blown up and people's cries of pain as the life was snuffed out of them. Now, it seemed, he'd been plunged into his own game, except this time it wasn't only a game. This time, it was really life or death. And he wasn't enjoying it one bit.

This time, he was living a nightmare.

The gun he held was only a small one—a Walther P22—one he would take his first shot with. It was his father's sadistic attempt at humor; he knew the young boy had a stupid obsession with law enforcement weapons, a thing not uncommon for boys his age. Bigger weapons would be left for when he was older. Right now, the compact handgun was just the right size for him.

"Let's go," his father commanded, "It's time to begin the real training."

"These are people with lives, Father! You're not God. You can't say who lives or dies!" He tried again, tears now forming in his eyes. He swiped at them in anger.

His father slapped him heavily, the sound resounding throughout the dimly lit room. Writhing in pain, Javier cradled his burning face. The skin immediately became purple-bronze in color. He stared at his father with open hatred.

"Don't ever speak to me in that way, with that tone, or with those words again. Never! I'm doing this for your own good."

"I hate you." The words were much more than a whisper, but they were buoyed by the dejected acceptance of his fate. He couldn't quell the disbelief he felt at his father's actions, nonetheless. This was too real.

His father laughed, but it was a laugh without humor. "You'll be thanking me for this later. It's too late to back down now, son. I'm afraid you have to do this because you will take over this business one day. I have to leave it in good hands. Someday, you'll understand."

He snapped two fingers, and two guards appeared. "Hold him. Drag him along, if you must. We're leaving."

"No need for that. I'm coming." Javier said bitterly.

"Finally, you're speaking sensibly." His father smiled sardonically.

They left the room and entered a dark street.

"We have two people to take care of tonight. I'll do the first, just to show you how it's done. You'll take care of the other."

They entered a dark alleyway through a back door of the building. The smell of rotting garbage filled the night air. As they shuffled along on the loose pebbles, his father retrieved a long gun Javier did not know the name of and began to load it.

"It's a sniper with an attached silencer," His father said as if reading his mind. "WA2000, my favorite one. Made this carbon copy myself." Catching his son's scared expression, he added, "You use it like you would any other gun. It's nothing to be afraid of."

The lookout guard turned around, placing one hand to touch the tiny device buried in his ear. "Suspect is approaching. About to turn right down Ewing Avenue."

"Got you." His father said and went to the edge of the alley. His black attire perfectly concealed him from an outsider's view. Crouching down, he took careful aim.

Javier knew he must be waiting until the target was properly in range.

The man came into view. He was holding a suitcase and was dressed in a trench coat, although Javier couldn't discern any colors because of the lack of light.

The man turned around, glancing first to the east and then to the west. He didn't have a chance to turn back to the front. The bullet met his chest with lightning speed and unbelievable silence. An uncanny kill shot. He fell to the ground and lay there.

Javier gasped as another guard announced, "Target two approaching west from Jackson Street."

His father looked down at him. "He's all yours."

Javier had to try to find a way out of this. "My gun will make noise."

"You're right, and I don't think we have an extra silencer. Use mine for tonight." His father offered. "You must hurry."

The sniper felt heavy and cold in his hands, which were trembling again. He'd never held a gun this big during the training sessions.

"Father, I can't. Please."

"Do it," His father said in a low, dangerous tone.

Javier gulped, not daring to defy the man again. Lifting the Russian sniper rifle, he took aim, mimicking the actions of his father.

The violent spasms rocking his body resulted in the lock being delayed. The outline of his hands was slightly blurred, his body's reaction to the panic he seemed unable to control. He felt cold all over, yet he was sweating profusely. He felt perspiration roll like tiny streams down his back. He felt the cotton shirt he wore under the grey hooded sweater stick to his skin like glue. The ragged breaths he drew through dry lips sounded too loud. He half expected his father to snap at him. Yet, there was nothing. The men were all vigilant, and his father's eyes were locked on the target. He felt like time had stopped; like he was in a void of panic and quiet confusion.

He swallowed, but the saliva slid down his throat like viscous molasses down rough parchment. Fear made him tighten his grip on the gun, willing the tremors to stop.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Then he pulled the trigger and watched as another silent bullet killed the second innocent victim.

Javier felt himself pushed backward by the momentum. As he stared off into the empty black night, he knew the guilt building up inside of him would never truly go away. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought of what he'd just done. He turned away so that he did not see the man fall.

But that did not stop him from hearing the low strangled cry that escaped the victim's mouth, a sound carried clearly through the still night air.