by Nick Keller
But there were Marine STA (Surveillance and Target Acquisition) guys in the vicinity looking for shots, too. It was a target-rich environment. Not knowing where each other was, both the Fifth Special Forces as well as the STA boys were ordered to retreat. No need for friendlies to get sniped in a crossfire. Sola described the deflating sound of the words, “Hold your fire…” as words he feared would become the infamous tome of his life’s greatest regret, but he obeyed his orders.
In September of 2001, a decade later, Sola would discover how founded his fears were on that fateful operation. How many opportunities does a man get to rid the world of evil incarnate? How many chances does a guy get to save two thousand lives in a single instant? And what are the consequences of failure? That was Sola’s demon—simple human guilt.
And now, Sola was out there loose and free, running around Los Angeles still looking for the one target that had gotten away, the one kill he never made.
“Jesus,” William whispered. The man needed help.
He and Bernie had gathered all the evidence they needed to have Anthony Sola Jr. taken into custody. The problem was, it was all inadmissible. That, as Bernie had declared, was their next mission: making Anthony Sola’s apartment, and all it contained, admissible in court.
But how? Unfortunately, Sola was turning out to be the most lawful citizen in L.A. No theft. No battery. Not so much as a ticket for jaywalking. But no one was perfect.
All it required was that William see the blind spots in the patterns. He’d have to look into places he couldn’t see. It was like opening the eyes behind his eyes, deep in his mind, and settling into a place between the obvious and the ambiguous.
It was no less than what he taught his classes. See the invisible. Look at the blind spots, the places you can’t see. Know what’s there. Just like the blind spot in your car. Or the animal behind the tree. Or the person’s face washed out in sunlight. You don’t have to see their eyes to know who it is, or what they’re thinking. Just know.
Like that oversized barrel in Anthony Sola Jr.’s apartment stuffed with clothing. You don’t have to see what’s in it. You already know what’s in it—
William gasped.
Oh, God. Sola had been there all along. He had been hiding! He was buried under clothes. He was there. He was spying on them, scouting the enemy!
The formula started coming together in William’s head. No more variables.
The mountain ranges of Iraq. Those photos were part of the formula, too. Sola had taken reconnaissance pictures from high up in the mountains, dozens of them. They were all at altitude, looking down into valleys and canyons. Sola had operated in the sky, always up high, an eagle’s eye view. It was how snipers operated, always looking down from high ground, like from a mountain ledge, or a tree, or a….
Holy shit.
A rooftop!
The realization made William scream. He looked out his window in a flash of terror. Sola needed someone to hunt. He knew William’s face. He knew William’s name. He probably followed him around town. He probably followed him straight home. And now he was up high. Jesus Christ. He was up on a rooftop. Oh God, he was…
… right there!
They saw each other through William’s window, locking eyes through Sola’s sniper scope at two hundred feet. He was perched on a rooftop across the parking lot pointing his sniper rifle right at him. Of course! Where the fuck else would he be?
William screamed again and dove for cover. The window shattered into glass pebbles. His computer monitor went up in a fountain of sparks—a bullet meant for him! Debris fell down all around him.
William glanced up through the window. Sola still had an eye line on him. It would take three quarters of a second to maneuver the rifle’s slide bolt. It would take another second and a half to reassess his target. Two and a half seconds to live.
William lunged away. Another shot exploded the wood paneling from his floor into splinters. The wastebasket got knocked over. Trash went everywhere.
William watched his cell phone slide like a rocket across the smooth floor. He grunted slapping a hand for it, screaming, “No!” but he was too late. The phone sailed over the edge of his loft and into negative space. He heard it land somewhere downstairs.
No time to hesitate. Not one second!
He rolled toward the wall. Another bullet gonged off the metal railing of the loft splitting the cross bar in two.
William sidled up against the brick wall tucked into a terrified ball. He looked up. The narrow window was directly above him. He could feel the cool Cali breeze issue through it. But he’d cut off Sola’s vantage. His attacker was blind.
William peeked out over the edge of his loft.
Where was the phone? Where was the goddamn phone?
He couldn’t see it below in the living area. Not on the rug. Maybe it had slid under the sofa. He beamed through frantic eyes, scoping below. He could see nothing. He was just as blind as his attacker.
Bernie made it into the parking lot flying past rows of cars. He was already huffing and puffing. He scanned over the tops of the cars, growling, and seeing no sign of Mark Neiman. There was a flash of movement over on the access road to the department complex. He looked there to see Mark’s black Camaro pulling out onto the thoroughfare.
“Mark…”
He knew exactly where Mark was going, knew exactly which route he would take to William’s home—up Sixth Street, straight to the 101, twelve miles through L.A. traffic and into Pasadena, warrant in hand. He’d taken that route before. He was sure to take it again.
Bernie would have to find an alternate route, try to beat him to William’s place.
He came to his car and collapsed against it, catching his breath. He threw open the door and got in, cranking the engine over. Pulling out of the lot with one hand, he brought up his phone in the other. He thumbed the auto dial for William’s number and brought it to his ear. He could hear it start ringing on the other end.
William leaned his head against the wall. There hadn’t been any shots fired since the last. Furthermore, he hadn’t heard the rifle’s report earlier, no big booming in the day. Sola was using his homemade silencer. He could perch up there all day and take pot shots at him.
The phone buzzed somewhere down below. Someone was calling him!
William grunted collapsing down to the edge of the loft searching the lower floor, fishing with his eyes for the sound of that phone.
There!
It blinked up at him. It had slipped across the floor all the way over to the big, downstairs window, the only window with unabated visibility. Getting to that phone would put him right in Sola’s view. It would be like venturing into incoming territory. But he didn’t have any choice. He needed that phone.
No answer. Bernie yelled in frustration and started to thumb off the phone, but he waited. William’s voicemail cycled through.
Beep.
“William, this is Bernie. If you get this, get out of your house. Get out now. Mark Neiman’s on his way. He’s got a warrant for your arrest. And call me back. I’m on my way to you now.” He started to hang up, but yelled, “And answer your fucking phone!”
He hung up realizing he’d just incriminated himself if ever there was an investigation. But he didn’t care. He’d figure that part out later, cross that bridge when it came.
He ripped the wheel to the left onto Figueroa St. It would run him all the way up to the 110 and 101 exchange. He could assess traffic on the way up, maybe cut Mark off and get ahead of him. Hopefully, there’d be a jam somewhere south.
William sighed. He didn’t like his options. That tiny window directly above him had very limited visibility for bird watching or plane watching or, say, shooting someone with a sniper rifle. But William didn’t want to chance running for the stairway. If Sola had repositioned, there would be no way to guess what his field of vision could be. The man was a killer pro.
There was only one option.
William slid tow
ard the edge of the loft balancing himself on the ledge. It would be quite a drop, but as long as he landed on his feet and didn’t snap an ankle or blow out a knee, he’d be fine.
Grabbing onto the twisted railing, he slipped his legs out over the edge, and in a moment of faith and hope, he dangled himself over the fall. Something pounded his home directly above him, right where he had just vacated. Chunks of brick fanned out like an explosion. William flinched, releasing his grasp in a last-ditch-effort to evade, and found himself floundering airborne for an eternal second.
He landed flat on his back feeling like a mule had kicked him. Pebbles of brick scattered down around him. He lay there stunned, hoping for an instant he hadn’t broken his spine. A tiny, infantile noise issued up from him, then he caught his breath trying to assess what had happened.
That son of a bitch had tried to shoot him through the wall. High-powered sniper rifles had all the potential in the world for sending a bullet right into engine blocks from half a mile away. Some of them could even go through engine blocks. Piercing half-a-century-old brick would be like firing at melons.
That much was obvious.
William gave himself a mental checklist, afraid of what he might find.
No blood. He could still feel his legs and feet. Nothing broken. Full motion in his limbs. Thank God.
Groaning, he rolled over opening and closing his jaw, popping his ears, shaking his head.
Note to self: no more hiding directly under windows.
His bubble of safety was beginning to narrow.
The 110 and 101 exchange was jam-packed. Bernie would have to stay on the side roads, but at least he could hope Mark Neiman was up there on that confusing mix of overpasses cussing and honking his horn. Bernie let out a roar of delight.
“Haha, asshole!”
He looked forward and his eyes went wide. He slammed on the brakes. Figueroa Street was all backed up, too.
“Awe, shit!”
William had resigned himself to staying flat on the floor. After Sola sent a round through the wall knocking him off the ledge, there was no way his attacker could know where he was, or if he was even still alive, just that he was inside the warehouse unit. Nevertheless, William had to assume he was still out there scoping for him. William slid across the floor one slow, cautious grasp at a time, headed painstakingly toward his phone.
William’s only problem was that huge window drawing ever nearer to him as he crawled along. He sidled up next to the window still out of sight, feeling exposed, hoping he wasn’t. Getting low to his belly he lay out reaching for the phone, stretching with all his body parts. His fingers brushed it. Just a tiny tap, but he managed to knock it a few inches away.
“No, no, no, no,” he muttered recoiling.
Now what?
He tried again.
His fingers were sweaty. They trembled, reaching ever further, pushing toward the phone. The phone lit up freezing him cold. Then it started to buzz. Someone was calling again.
That cell phone light was visible, especially through a high-powered scope.
William gasped pulling his hand away. Just overhead the entire window exploded into glass droplets, all raining down around him. He screamed a terrified yowl and scooted backward folding into a protective ball. He shut his mouth clamping over it with his hands.
He’d just screamed. Christ, why’d he do that? He’d given his position away. Now he was a dead man.
He rolled over, got to his feet, and leaped over the couch. Another bullet sent brick exploding into the living room, then a second, and a third. Sola was peppering his house. William hit the deck as a bullet struck the couch. Stuffing went up and fluttered back down. William kept his lips pursed refusing to utter another sound—just mmm mm mmm!
He looked over from a worm’s eye view on the floor. The phone was still lying way across the room in a puddle of shimmering glass. He waited, breathless.
Bernie had finally made it to the 101. The heavy stuff was behind him. Everything was free moving. He was half way to the Pasadena warehouse district. Too much time had gone by, though. It was a mistake jumping onto Figueroa. Mark Neiman was probably already at William’s place, kicking the security gate open, making his arrest.
Bernie slapped his steering wheel sliding into traffic, cutting people off, moving around cars and big rigs, even hopping the shoulder, and leaning on his horn. “Move it, people!”
William didn’t know how long he lay there. Time seemed to stretch. Fifteen minutes. Thirty? No one was more patient than a sniper. He shook his head. William was a junior college professor, a very patient individual himself, by God. It was a battle of wills, now.
His phone had been sitting there exposed to the shooting gallery outside, ringing over and over. Someone called once, then twice, now a third time.
The breeze came in through the window.
Answering that phone would mean sure death.
Now what?
William heard something land loud and heavy in the living room, crunching glass under its weight and rolling across the wood floor to a stop. William covered himself up in a panic.
A grenade? Is he throwing grenades now?
He waited for an explosion, but nothing happened. He blinked and peeked out from behind the couch, low to the floor. It was a brick. He looked at it quizzically. Sola was throwing bricks through his window from two hundred feet away. He was a nice shot, all the way around. As William studied it, he noticed writing. He looked harder. In dark Sharpie scrawl, it read:
Say
Hello
He chanced coming up from behind the couch, peeking outside. The phone started buzzing again. Anthony Sola Jr. was calling him.
What to do, what to do?
Anthony Sola Jr. had studied every detail through his scope. He’d been up here for an hour. Eight or ten shots he’d fired down there, and still his mark had evaded him. He had to draw him out. His finger rubbed the trigger. He breathed in long, controlled breaths, putting his crosshair directly at that cellphone, listening to his sniper’s training. He waited for his prize to flash across the opening. That’s what targets always did, thinking they could outrun a bullet. Yes, William would dive across the space, grab his phone in a flash, and that’s when Sola would get him, that’s when William would collapse under a cloud of crimson mist from his head.
Sola waited, waited, then blinked in shock.
William stood there in the open window, moving slow and sure—right there in his scope! In fact, William stared right back at him, right through his scope, just standing there waiting to die, like a man filled with fate, facing his own death without so much as a tremor, with Sola’s crosshair on his face. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. The enemy never showed himself. Not knowingly. It made Sola pull his eye away from the scope. They looked at each other from across the distance.
Sola tilted the rifle away.
This wasn’t the enemy.
When William bent over, collected his phone, slunk back into his home, and disappeared, Sola adjusted his Bluetooth headset. His phone buzzed on silent mode. He answered, “Yes.”
William said, “Anthony Sola Jr.?”
“You know my name. You have me at a disadvantage,” Sola murmured.
“Heh—you want to bet?”
Sola said, “The Eye doesn’t see you.”
“I prefer it that way.”
“You’re not the enemy.”
William responded slow, calculating. “No—I’m not the enemy.”
“Mmm—you’re William Erter.”
“Yes.”
“Nice to meet you, William Erter. Fascinating name, you have. No one hears it, do they?”
“You hear it.”
“Yes, I do. William Erter. Will. You. Murder.”
William said, “That’s me. My father had a fine sense humor.”
“But you aren’t the enemy.”
“Sola, neither of us are the enemy.”
“We have something else in co
mmon,” Sola said, reasoned, calm and cool.
William paused, thinking. He finally said, “We’re both A. Sola Junior aren’t we? We’re both… A. Soldier.”
“Always with The Eye on the enemy, yes?” Sola murmured.
“The Eye.”
Sola looked in the opposite direction when he heard a car door shut. He swung his rifle around scoping the distance. A man came moving through the warehouse units with his jacket flowing in the breeze, very official-looking. Very serious. Sola put his crosshair on him.
William had the phone white-knuckled in his fist, listening hard. He heard Sola say through that cold, implacable voice that slid through the phone receiver, “The Eye sees the real enemy, now.”
William flinched. “It does?” he said trying to hide his confusion.
“He approaches through the valley.”
The valley?
Someone was walking through the buildings, coming this way.
Bernie!
William said, “Sola, that’s a friend. Not the enemy, Sola.”
“Hundred meters. A negative twenty degrees. Mild windage. Nice distance. The Eye sees far.”
William heard the slide bolt engage over the phone—up, back, forward, down—and felt his heart go up in his throat. Say something. Say something! “Only we can see,” William said. “No one else sees what we can see.”
“The Eye does,” Sola said.
William said, “If it did, it would know that target is friendly. Do not shoot.”
William listened for the whip crack of a silencer. There was nothing. He peeked around the corner of the couch, through the open window space. He saw the target approaching.
It wasn’t Bernie.
It was Mark Neiman.