should be no concern, other than discovery.
He lowered the power window on the driver’s side. He repositioned the truck’s rear view and driver’s side mirrors so they could alert him to the lights of approaching traffic. The roadway was clear.
From the passenger position, Brad stretched out across the seat, allowing his left elbow to rest on the cushion of the center armrest and the rifle barrel to gently meet the window frame of the driver-side door. Only the suppressor was exposed outside the window.
Brad rotated the MOA (minute of angle) turret four clicks on the Leupold VX-3 scope in order to achieve the elevation correction needed for the distance to target. The surface target area was the black and gold pattern on the rear of the gangster’s cap. The true target, the medulla oblongata, was now centered on the scope’s reticle. Brad controlled his breathing.
The gangster appeared unconcerned about detection. Focusing on his work, he stepped back from the wall.
Brad hugged the trigger with his index finger. He deepened his breath for a count of three, and then held it as he gradually brought the trigger toward him. Pfft. The rifle spat out the traveling end of the cartridge with almost no sound.
The gangster was shaking the stirring ball in his aerosol can when the 3.6 grams of lead entered the rear of his head at three thousand feet per second. On impact with the base of his skull, the lead began its tumble. Fragmenting as it raced through the man’s brain, pieces of jagged lead burst from his face. His head fell forward as he collapsed to the ground.
Brad checked his mirrors for headlights, and then sat up in the seat. He pulled the gun case from the floor and onto his lap. Removing the suppressor from the barrel, he placed it and the rifle back into their protective foam recesses.
As he lowered the gun case behind the seat, Brad glanced across the highway for a last look at his target. He cranked the engine, repositioned his mirrors and drove away.
Somewhat content, he knew he could never feel any satisfaction until the body belonged to Julie’s killer.
Chapter 12
----
MNPD Gym
Nashville, Tennessee
Tuesday Morning
Mike was invigorated by his workout with free weights and the heavy bag. He was not a pretentious man, but he paid attention to his health. He maintained his conditioning with twice-weekly visits to the MNPD gym and nightly cardio sessions at home. The workouts were a priority, begun during his years in the military, and now they were even more crucial to ward off the life-eating stress monsters that came with his job. Near the end of each cardio session, while assaulting the suspended leather bag, Mike visualized the image of the monster that killed his sister. This always prolonged his workouts.
As he walked from the steamy showers back into the locker room he spotted Tom Sanders and a man he didn’t know. They were pulling on their gym clothes. Tom was one of the Narcotics Section’s senior detectives.
“Hello, Mike.”
“Tom,” Mike said, towel drying his hair. “How’s the drug biz?”
“We’re snowed,” Tom replied, laughing at his own pun. “Mike, have you met Chuck Kelsey?”
“I don’t think so.” Mike turned toward the stranger and offered his hand.
“Chuck—Mike Neal,” Tom said. “Mike’s with Homicide. Chuck just recently joined us.”
Mike dropped his towels on the bench and reached for his boxers.
Chuck winced as he spotted Mike’s assortment of scars up and down the right side of his body. He gave Tom a questioning look.
“Those are his souvenirs from Iraq,” Tom said. “Mike was with Army CID.”
“I didn’t mean to stare,” Chuck apologized, embarrassed by Tom’s statement.
“I’m used to it.” Mike half-smiled.
“CID, huh?” Chuck asked.
“Yeah, ’89 to ’94.”
“So, how did you get the scars?” Chuck asked.
“From a rocket-propelled grenade in April ’91. The Iraqis fired into a group of Kurdish Peshmergas while
He lowered the power window on the driver’s side. He repositioned the truck’s rear view and driver’s side mirrors so they could alert him to the lights of approaching traffic. The roadway was clear.
From the passenger position, Brad stretched out across the seat, allowing his left elbow to rest on the cushion of the center armrest and the rifle barrel to gently meet the window frame of the driver-side door. Only the suppressor was exposed outside the window.
Brad rotated the MOA (minute of angle) turret four clicks on the Leupold VX-3 scope in order to achieve the elevation correction needed for the distance to target. The surface target area was the black and gold pattern on the rear of the gangster’s cap. The true target, the medulla oblongata, was now centered on the scope’s reticle. Brad controlled his breathing.
The gangster appeared unconcerned about detection. Focusing on his work, he stepped back from the wall.
Brad hugged the trigger with his index finger. He deepened his breath for a count of three, and then held it as he gradually brought the trigger toward him. Pfft. The rifle spat out the traveling end of the cartridge with almost no sound.
The gangster was shaking the stirring ball in his aerosol can when the 3.6 grams of lead entered the rear of his head at three thousand feet per second. On impact with the base of his skull, the lead began its tumble. Fragmenting as it raced through the man’s brain, pieces of jagged lead burst from his face. His head fell forward as he collapsed to the ground.
Brad checked his mirrors for headlights, and then sat up in the seat. He pulled the gun case from the floor and onto his lap. Removing the suppressor from the barrel, he placed it and the rifle back into their protective foam recesses.
As he lowered the gun case behind the seat, Brad glanced across the highway for a last look at his target. He cranked the engine, repositioned his mirrors and drove away.
Somewhat content, he knew he could never feel any satisfaction until the body belonged to Julie’s killer.
Chapter 12
----
MNPD Gym
Nashville, Tennessee
Tuesday Morning
Mike was invigorated by his workout with free weights and the heavy bag. He was not a pretentious man, but he paid attention to his health. He maintained his conditioning with twice-weekly visits to the MNPD gym and nightly cardio sessions at home. The workouts were a priority, begun during his years in the military, and now they were even more crucial to ward off the life-eating stress monsters that came with his job. Near the end of each cardio session, while assaulting the suspended leather bag, Mike visualized the image of the monster that killed his sister. This always prolonged his workouts.
As he walked from the steamy showers back into the locker room he spotted Tom Sanders and a man he didn’t know. They were pulling on their gym clothes. Tom was one of the Narcotics Section’s senior detectives.
“Hello, Mike.”
“Tom,” Mike said, towel drying his hair. “How’s the drug biz?”
“We’re snowed,” Tom replied, laughing at his own pun. “Mike, have you met Chuck Kelsey?”
“I don’t think so.” Mike turned toward the stranger and offered his hand.
“Chuck—Mike Neal,” Tom said. “Mike’s with Homicide. Chuck just recently joined us.”
Mike dropped his towels on the bench and reached for his boxers.
Chuck winced as he spotted Mike’s assortment of scars up and down the right side of his body. He gave Tom a questioning look.
“Those are his souvenirs from Iraq,” Tom said. “Mike was with Army CID.”
“I didn’t mean to stare,” Chuck apologized, embarrassed by Tom’s statement.
“I’m used to it.” Mike half-smiled.
“CID, huh?” Chuck asked.
“Yeah, ’89 to ’94.”
“So, how did you get the scars?” Chuck asked.
“From a rocket-propelled grenade in April ’91. The Iraqis fired into a group of Kurdish Peshmergas while
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