Straight Shooter Novels & Stories

[Antagonist] ADRIAN’S POV: I stared at the body of one of my best hitmen, struggling to contain the anger that threatened to rip me apart. Darryl. That was his name. A marksman who was known for his efficiency on the gun, Darryl had made a name on the dark streets of the underworld in Cleveland. The stories that followed him were immense. They said he could shoot from any angle. Darryl, they said, could duck a bullet without even flinching. Darryl “the hitman” had once shot an opposition’s bullet with his own bullet before proceeding to finish them off.

I strode straight up to one of them. "Step aside," I said, my voice cold and demanding. The man started to protest. Before he could finish, I raised my right hand and shot him straight in the skull. The echo of the gunshot rang out in the night, and I was already moving forward. Fury burned through me like wildfire.

Weapon drawn before he even straightens up. He doesn't call out. Doesn't ask for ID. He just raises his rifle and targets Isla. I draw my sidearm. Glock 19. Fifteen rounds. MSA Section 4.6 flashes in my mind—The Client shall not interfere with the Contractor's operational decisions. I’m supposed to observe. Stay back. Let the sovereign handle her own war. But this isn't a boardroom. This is a kill box. I fire. Two rounds. Center mass.

I’m not thanking you for anything… shove it up your ass sideways. “Because I could have, you know. I still could.” Casually, he set his gun on the table between them. “Know why they call me Trigger?” She nodded. “Why, cunt?” Ignoring the insult, she answered him without emotion. “Because you shoot people between the eyes without hesitation. You’re said to be very fast, and very accurate at it.” He paused, a bit taken aback; she sounded like she was reading the phone book aloud. “Yeah. That’s right.”

I stand, stroll around a bit, limber up. The adrenaline is pounding. Calm down... I hold out my hand. It's trembling a little. I stroll some more, take a couple of deep breaths, then try again, splaying fingers. Steady as a rock... Taking my place, flat-chested to the ground, I sight him. The crosshairs weave one way then the other until... There... Got him... ... they centre squarely over my target. It's a hell of a shot. Over a mile

His confidence oozed out of him, he had the ability to changes someone’s mind with one word or look. “Archer?” The nickname Archer had come from his sharp rifle skills. All through his military career, he had been the number one marksman in his unit. When he transferred to the ETT he maintained his target precision and the nickname that came with it. “Nothing. Just thinking.” He replied to Johnson. Archer ran his hand through his hair, resting his elbows on his camouflaged covered knees. He interlocked his fingers, his chin resting on the crook of his knuckles. Johnson observed his comrade, Archer’s legs fidgeted disconcertingly which he only did when he was racking his brain for a solution

The blonde man quickly asked. The white-haired geezer sighed and said coolly, "In the savanna, young hunters are given a pistol, a hunting knife, and a double rifle. The rifle has two triggers which fire separately so that in case you didn't land your first shot, you can double-tap at top speed. "And if you miss your second shot, you would have the pistol for a third. Even if that fails, you can go for a melee attack with the knife… Either way, you're either the hunter or the hunted."

Finally, the moment of truth was upon them. “Do not rest the barrel—that will affect the fall of your shot.” “Yes, sir,” Jona replied, although Otto had said that many times before. “Aim for a strikethrough. If you can’t take the headshot, aim for the chest.” “Strikethrough” was Papa’s reference to a clean kill when a bullet enters the skull’s front and blows out the back—the same went for a shot to the heart. Accuracy meant slicing straight through the organ. A perfectly placed round entered at an exact angle and the mark was dead before they hit the ground.

I kick the door open and dodge to the side. The dummy falls backward under a hail of gunfire. The second it stops; I leap up and unleash my own assault on the shooter. The pain in my shoulder tells me I’ve been hit, but nothing fatal. My shots land in his chest and abs, and he flays about before hitting the floor. Just as I breathe a sigh of relief, I catch a blur of motion out of the corner of my eyes.

When they see an opportunity, their fear is eclipsed by the pain they have suffered and they strike. ‘Second are the planned ones, committed by schemers. They are ready to suffer a little more, but meanwhile they come up with a plan, accounting for every eventuality and leaving no provision for the unforeseen. Once they are confident about their foolproof plan, they would wait for the perfect opening and then bam!’