J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

Though I don’t remain still for longer than a second, it feels like a week, and my ears burn and my forehead gets hot where I imagine a bull’s-eye to be, where the shot is going to hit.

The shot doesn’t come.

I pull the gun closer to my body, drop my right shoulder, and quickly roll back to my original hiding spot alongside the window.

Herb says, “I had seven heart attacks watching you do that.”

I look down the hallway, lock eyes with Herb in the mirror reflection of a music CD he’s holding out the doorway. He’s using it like I’d used the lipstick, to see around the corner.

Rather than respond, I do a quick inspection of the weapon. A Dakota rifle. Fixed sights. A twenty-four-inch barrel. Bolt action. I check the magazine. Three.458 rounds, plus one already chambered. I tuck the butt into my armpit and sight through the scope, aiming at the ceiling.

The lens is cracked, and bent to the left side.

“Scope’s dead,” I call to Herb. “Any more back there?”

A pause. Then, “No.”

“Bullets?”

“I didn’t see-”

The crack of the shot makes me flinch, and the CD disintegrates in Herb’s hand. I look around the room at my men. They’re hunkered down, terrified. I need to get them out of here. But I can’t if they’re too scared to move.

“Looks like our sniper isn’t a music fan,” I say. The joke sounds forced, mostly because it is.

“I can’t blame him,” Herb says. “I don’t like John Denver either.”

I unscrew the scope from its mount and toss it aside. Then I swing the barrel around, toward the street.

“Hold up another one.”

“I could only find his greatest hits album.”

I suck in air, blow it out hard, my cheeks billowing.

“How about Neil Diamond?” I yell.

I rest the tip of the barrel on the windowsill, an inch away from the glass. Not the best way to steady a rifle, but all I can manage given the situation.

“No Neil. Is Jim Croce okay?”

“That’s fine.”

“ Time in a Bottle , or You Don’t Mess Around With Jim ?”

I’m about to tell Herb I don’t care, but I reconsider. “ Time in a Bottle, ” I yell.

I was never a fan of sappy love songs.

I stare down the street, waiting for it. The sniper’s muzzle flashes before I hear the shot. The CD explodes.

“I couldn’t save Time in a Bottle ,” Herb says.

I line up the sights, fixing them slightly above my target, knowing the bullet will travel in a parabolic arc.

“I’m going to fire four shots, four seconds apart,” I tell the room. “So you have between twelve and sixteen seconds to get the injured, and yourselves, out of the house. There’s an ambulance on the corner of Leavitt and Leland. You can get there using parked cars for cover. Understood?”

I count five yeses , including a weak moan from the injured techie. One voice is conspicuous in its absence.

“You too Herb.”

“No way. I’m liking this CD collection too much. When was the last time you heard the Kingston Trio?”

“That’s an order, Herb.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Goddammit. If Herb died his wife would kill me.

“Fine. Hold up the other Croce CD, then stay hidden. We go after I fire my first round. Everyone get ready.”

I hold the rifle tight against my armpit and rest my chin on the stock, sighting down the barrel. I test the trigger pull, apply enough pressure to barely move it. Then I wait, breathing slow and easy so it doesn’t throw off my aim.

It doesn’t take long. The killer can’t resist showing off his marksman skills, and he blows away the second Croce CD.

“Go!” I tell the room.

Then I squeeze the trigger.

MUNCHEL GRUNTS in satisfaction after the CD shatters, and then he moves the scope ever so slightly to watch the split-tail. He’s ready for her to fire back. Hell, he wants her to fire back. That’s why he didn’t kill her when she went for the rifle, even though he had a bead on it. Confirmed kills are great, but real snipers must also contend with return fire. The cops in the street, they’re all too far away, their guns not powerful enough to reach him. There’s no threat or danger.

He wants a little danger. And the ultimate danger is when you go up against another sniper. An anti-sniper.

Munchel doesn’t expect her to come close to him. Her rifle is a toy compared to his, and she doesn’t even have a scope. But this will be a much better story to tell Swanson and Pessolano if the cops send a few rounds his way.

“Show me what you got, baby,” Munchel says, baring his yellow teeth in a grin.

When her first bullet connects with the concrete planter he’s resting his gun on, Munchel jerks like he’s had acid thrown in his face. He drops the TPG-1 and ducks down.

How the hell did she make that shot?

“Lucky,” he says aloud, his voice cracking.

As the word leaves his lips, another shot blasts into the planter, tossing up stone chips, burrowing a hole into it.

Munchel backs the hell away. He checks his clothing. Why isn’t the camouflage working? Is she using night vision?

A bullet zips over his head, its wind practically parting his hair before burying itself into the building behind him. He hunkers down even lower, thinking he should be returning fire, knowing he should, but too scared to move.

One more shot, and the planter shatters, large chunks falling to the ground, a puff of dirt forming a cloud that settles in his eyes and on his lips.

Munchel holds his breath, waiting. His bladder feels like a water balloon being squeezed in a vise. Sweat pops out of his body in places he didn’t even know he had pores. He doesn’t dare move, convinced that she can see him.

A full minute passes.

He wonders if she’s out of bullets, or simply toying with him. Maybe she has the shot, has him all lined up, and is enjoying watching him squirm.

Sirens, in the distance. Munchel knows that must be SWAT. He needs to break camp, get the hell out of here. His heart is thumping. His mouth is dry. His palms feel like he just soaked them in water. He’s more scared than he’s ever been in his life.

But he’s also exhilarated.

This is what combat is like, he thinks.

The feeling is intoxicating.

Munchel knows the news cameras are rolling, knows that the split-tail can see him, knows that what he has in mind might be suicidal. But he decides to go for it anyway.

No one expects a pinned down man to charge. So Munchel charges.

The suitcase in one hand, the TPG- 1 in the other, he sprints across the sidewalk, across the street, daring the woman cop to shoot him. He knows to zigzag, to make himself a harder target. He maybe even yells a little, an animalistic war cry, the sound of a hero facing certain death.

No bullets hit him. No one even shoots at him. Munchel pauses behind a car to catch his breath, marveling at his own bravery. It’s dark, and the streetlight he shot out earlier helps him hide in the shadows. But if the cop has some sort of optical enhancer, it’s possible she can still see him.

The sirens are getting closer. He needs some kind of distraction, something that will confuse the night-vision goggles the woman cop must be using.

He unzips the suitcase, removes one of two whiskey bottles. Inside is kerosene mixed with laundry detergent. Poor man’s napalm. Munchel would have preferred real napalm, or a grenade, but he couldn’t get those. He tried to order some, on the Internet, and the prick took his money and didn’t send him shit. Hopefully the homemade stuff will be good enough.

Munchel unscrews the bottle cap and shoves in a braided wick from a camping lantern. He uses a Zippo to light the wick and then shouts, “Semper fi!” as he throws the flaming bottle at a parked SUV. It bounces off the hood and shatters on the sidewalk, soaking someone’s lawn with liquid fire.