Top platform of the DuPont Smoke Stack in Charlottesville, Virginia, Michael Lewis, a 35-year-old Caucasian man standing at about 6’ 5”. A rough go-te runs down his face like spilt coffee. A Camouflage bandana rapped around his head covering his Pope’s cap bald spot. After being diagnosed with cancer 4 weeks before, he decided to end his life with a bang. He stands prone, and alone with a L118A Sniper rifle lying face down beside him. He looks through a Spotting Scope seeking his target. Down in the city of Charlottesville, preparations are being made for Representative Donald Vega. Donald is a wealthy Caucasian with a brunette bowl cut and a hooked nose like a witch. Michael Lewis was born as a simple man, raised on the poor side of town. Attending South Street Methodist Church alone for 12 years. He was a clever man, leaving his high school with a 4.0 GPA. And being awarded a scholarship to West Point, the U.S. Military Academy. He was raised in a band of brothers born to kill. Donald on the other hand, was just a target, a man on a list that he had to kill. He didn’t know why his client wanted him dead, but $1 million dollars in cash was pretty convincing.
A cold breeze drags across Michaels large, harry hands, worn from hard labor and a tough childhood. Michael had no family, and didn’t stay in one spot long enough to have friends. He had killed many men, both in Iraq and as a private mercenary. But Donald struck him as a different man, not just like a terrorist or an evil man, but something else. Michael pondered this thought, taking a quick glance at his watch. 14:30 (military time) it said. The speech was to start in 10 minutes. Out of boredom, Michael begins to linger his attention to other things around the podium. The small, white with red lining podium was crowded with an abundance of people. He knew these people. Richard Clark was his first boss. He had taught Michael how to work with Iron and steel. Richard had ran a bullet making factory before the lead supply was so costly. And there was Paige Webb, his first kiss. They had escaped from class and gone behind the school building. When they came out, everyone was standing around in a circle, with their teacher in the middle. On stage was one of his old friends Pete Jackson. He was one of his good buddies back in middle school. They were the pranksters of the town. Throwing pies and dropping water on people was one of their favorite tricks. Pete was now a tall, red head with dark glasses hanging from his shirt. He was well dressed, rocking a suit and tie with a Tasmanian devil on it.
Michael looked down at his watch again, 14:40 hours. The speech hadn’t begun yet and he was running out of shooting light. It was early November of the year 2017. This town had grown two fold since he was last here in 1995. 14:50 rolls around and Donald walks up onstage. A roar of silent claps erupts from the tiny circle he looks through. 700 yards is a tough shot for any sniper, of any skill. Patience is a virtue in the sniping world. Wait for the perfect shot, stop, wait again, and then shoot. Michael’s skill had won him a reasonable name around the assassins list. He slowly picks up his rifle, popping open the bipod for a better shot, then lying it down on the metal grate he was lying on. He was about 200 feet in the air, at the very top of the smoke stack. A thin layer of ash falls gently upon him as smoke rumbles out of the stack. Cloud like figures rose in his background, and right in front of him. He would have to wait for the smoke to stop just enough to peep his sight through and take the shot. These clouds told him where the wind is heading, so quick fixes would be easily obtained.
The crosshairs stand right upon the Representative, an easy shot. Smoke rises and falls, blocking and unblocking his shot. The smoke stops, but the wind doesn’t, blowing a mere 4 mph. But at the distance he was shooting, 4 mph is a death threat. It could throw off your shot by 4 to 10 feet. He clenches the handle of the rifle, a clammy sweat drips out of his hands, and his breathe steadies. The crosshairs wiggle around Donald Vega’s head. Michael slowly eases the trigger back. Then click. He forgot to press the safety button off. For an experienced sniper, he can pull a pretty stupid move. He quickly clicks the safety off and steadies for the actual shot. He relaxes his shoulder preparing for the shot. A knot has arisen in the crotch between his bone and his left shoulder blade from an accident in Iraq. When his squad was pinned down, and he had to shoulder shoot a Barrett .50 Caliber machine gun. The gun had thrown his shoulder out of place, which allowed him to kill the 79 Taliban Warriors that had ambushed his squad. He got a silver star for it. But that little mistake of information made him lose 3 out of his 9-squad members. This spot hurt when he shot, but the muscle didn’t move at all. He could put it into an immobile state, offering little sway when shooting.
