The bullet punctured a hole in the target and dissapeared into the hill behind it. The hole was a little off centre and below the bullseye but would still make for a kill.

Felson tugged back on the lever, slotted a bullet into the chamber and readied himself again. One. Two. Three. Four. He was keeping count of his breaths and the hold time between. Calm. That's what he remembered most from his training. It was beaten into him by his instructor and ever more so during his time in active service. Calm amidst the storm is what he'd say, and he wasn't wrong.

The cackle of a machine gunnner's nest started to breach his focus. The sound of shells exploding from a mortar joined in. Then the screams. Felson shook his head, his eye no longer over the gun's sight. He pushed himself up from his prone position, dragged the gun with him and walked back to take a seat at a table. He checked and disarmed the rifle, leaned it carefully against the table and removed a tin of smokes from his pocket.

Calm. Focus. Tender with the squeeze. But without the calm there was no focus and you could definitely forget about a light pull on the trigger. He tried to ignore his shakinng hands as he lit the joint and took a puff. He was kind of use to it by now. At first he felt like damaged goods. But now when it happened he'd see it as just another Tuesday.

Felson nodded as he exhaled and the smell of cannabis started to fill his immediate area. He was seated at a group of wooden picnic tables lined up across the front of the start of the firing range. A little ways forward were the positions to shoot from and beyond that the targets, some a good distance away.

Another puff, another exhale. Felson nodded again. He could feel the calm wash over him and the sounds and flashes of memories begin to dissipate.

Spencer checked his watch once more as he cleared the M1 Garand and packed away the unused rounds in the ammo can. He still had two hours before Amira was supposed to be finished with her meeting at the Seraphinium, but he'd done about all the damage he could do for the day anyway and lunch was starting to sound like a good idea. Shouldering the rifle, he took the ammo can and started up the dirt trail back toward the front of the range. Garrett was supposed to have come with him, but for the umpteenth time, the pansy had found an excuse to back out. Smirking, Spencer shook his head and decided to quit trying. The poor Ivy League bastard would probably piss himself after the first round cracked off anyway. 

As the head of the range came into view, he noticed the place was nearly empty. Not really surprising- it was the middle of the day, after all. There was one figure seated at one of the picnic tables, and as he drew closer, Spencer picked up the unmistakable scent of pot. Also not surprising. This range was almost exclusively kept afloat by veterans, like himself. The path led directly past the table where the other visitor was sitting, and Spencer offered a nod as he approached. He almost kept going- but something stopped him. Not a feeling; nothing that concrete. It wasn't even really a hunch. Sometimes, you could just tell when someone could use a distraction. Whatever it was, he stopped and made a quarter turn on his heel. 

"Hey, bud- you got a light? I left mine in the car."

He removed the strap from his shoulder and propped the standard-issue Army weapon against the table, then set the can on the ground. From the breast pocket of his button-up, light blue shirt, he took a pack of Marlboros and tapped one out. He glanced around, not really turning his head very much as he replaced the pack. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt pulled up as he moved; a flash of a blue airborne shield with red wings just able to be seen on his forearm. 

Felson shivered a little as he heard the voice. He felt a little.. naked, as these moments he usually kept to himself or he'd play them off around people he couldn't avoid. Turning his head, he noticed Spencer for the first time. He'd been in his own head a little too long, and begun fumbling to address the real situation before him.

The joint was lightly put out on the bench and placed next to the ash, then he grabbed for his lighter, which was also on the bench, then stood to attention and greeted the man.

"Sure thing!"

Felson was calm, but anxious. It always followed his episodes. His left eye was twitching a little, which made him even more nervous, thinking how this guy, who looked to carry himself well, to him atleast, might be perceiving him.

Still jittery, he handed the lighter forward, not wanting to spend time trying to flick it into action, then dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets. His t-shirt was plain and black, and his jeans were rolled up slightly at the cuff showing a clean pair of PF Flyers. He looked casual compared to most in his line of work but he'd done away with uniforms when the Army had seemingly done away with him.

Watching Spencer light his cigarette, Felson noticed the tattoo on his forearm.

"Airborne?"

It had been a long time since Spencer had worn a uniform, and he was reasonably sure he didn't have "Lt. Col." tattooed on his forehead, so the jumpy reaction was fairly telling. Spencer took the lighter from him with a slow, easy hand and a nod. 

"Thanks."

In truth, it had been four days since he'd had a cigarette. Garrett was still after him like a goddamn hen about smoking; but Garrett was going to have to stuff it today. Shielding the flame from the errant breeze, he lit the cigarette. By his estimation, the man in front of him was still in his twenties, maybe late twenties; but like most guys that age, youth had been stolen from this one.

"Airborne?" 

Spencer exhaled, taking the cigarette and lighter in his left hand, and extended his right hand towards the younger man to shake, along with what he hoped was an easy-going smile. 

"That's right. The 160th out of Ft. Campbell. At ease, man. Spencer McGregor."

He handed the lighter back. 

"Army?" 

Felson acknowledged the offer with a solid handshake and a respectful nod. He noticed the man's smile but he was far from there himself, his face as long as a horse's. He took the lighter in hand and pulled up his right sleeve on his t-shirt showing a tattoo with Ranger, 2nd Battalion ribboned above a shield.

"Yeah, Ranger 2nd Battalion. How'd you know?" he said as he glanced at his own tattoo, then promptly took his seat again and motioned for Spencer to join him, "Please."

​He began fidgeting with his lighter, whilst looking mostly at the table but couldn't help taking a glance around at the smallest inkling of activity. He handn't spent much time with vets on this side of the war, he tried to avoid them really, but now seemed like as good a time as any.

"Second of the 75th..." Spencer thought to himself. "Goddamn." There were suddenly no more questions in his mind.

Taking the offered seat, sort of, Spencer perched himself on the tabletop and rested his feet on the bench as he took another drag of the cigarette. They'd been on opposite ends of the world in the war; one in the Pacific and one in Europe. Spencer could feel, even now, the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that churned up when he heard what happened on those beaches from the Stars and Stripes issues that made it to Saipan. Spencer had always been proud of his service and his country- but that never should have happened, and sitting beside him was exactly why. 

He exhaled and flicked away some ashes, making sure they went with the wind and away from the two of them.

"Army was a lucky guess. Military...let's just say I know the look. How was the shooting today?"

Felson nodded as he spoke, "Ah, you never kind of lose it, you know?"

He grabbed the joint and relit it with efficiency, all in one motion, then flicked the lighter closed.

"I remember being back there and.."

He looked down at the table as he spoke. 

"I hadn't set me eyes on brass for a good while. They had us on the front lines and, to be honest it's where I was suppose to be, ya know?"

He glanced up at Spencer.

"But when I got my hands on that bolt again.."

Felson smiled.

"There's nothing like droppin' Jerries with a bolty.. One shot, one kill, drop 'em at will."

Felson was echoing Tommy's words, a grunt he served with, as he nodded his own approval knowing the soldier would be repeating it after him if he were still here. They all would've been.

"Anyway.."

Felson relit the joint once again, this time taking it slow. He twirled it between his fingers and watched the lighter flame the ashed end.

"How 'bout you? You any good with a target?"

Felson, still holding the lighter aflame, glanced at Spencer's Garand. He flicked the lighter closed, took a puff of the joint, then nodded at his own Springfield 03 bolt-action sniper rifle with the exhale.

"Care for a wager?"

Spence gave a meager shrug tinged with a smirk. 

"I'm a lot better in the dark, but I'm not one to turn down a chance to take a man's money." 

It was good talk, but the man had a sniper rifle. Spencer was a good shot, but even he knew this wasn't a sure thing. Nonetheless, he slid off the table and reached for his ammo can. 

​​​​​​"What do you do in the civilian world?" 

Felson hoped he'd say yes and jumped at the response, grabbed his gun with gusto and sprung into motion off of the bench, joining Spencer at his side as the two began the walk.

The day was without rain so far but the clouds were rolling deeper than they had been. Felson took a moment to notice this as they shuffled along.

"Civilian life?"

Felson swung the rifle over his shoulder and made sure the strap was secure.

"I'm not sure I'd call it that. I work for some people out of Philly. They're not really the sort that work the 9 to 5."

Felson took another look overhead, then back at their surroundings.

"Just had to find work that fit the skill set brought home, you know?"

He glanced at Spencer, figuring the vet might get the gist of his minimal response.

"How 'bout yaself?"

"Some people out of Philly." That was verbiage Spencer immediately recognized, and he chuckled a bit.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I work for some people out of Los Angeles. Though I'm not technically 'connected' to my employers organization. My job is head of security for one of their high-profile 'executives.' She's out here for a meeting, so I'm off for a couple of hours. Heard this was a pretty good range and thought I'd take a look-see."

Spencer couldn't help follow the man's glance around; and though he didn't feel the compulsive need to do so himself, he knew where it came from. He did notice the clouds thickening- so did his right hip.

"Kind of nice to see the East Coast. Hell of a lot greener out here than L.A."

Felson smirked at Spencer's response. Seemed like they worked in similar circles.

The two meandered along the winding path a little more until it reached a fork, then took a left towards one of the positions that would allow them to shoot at one of the further targets.

"Yeah it ain't bad out this way and the range is always quiet. The weather tends to shift a little though, but there's some good people out here so I can't complain too much. What's it like in LA? Met or worked for anyone famous?"

They arrived at the spot where they'd be firing from. Felson flicked his gun down from his shoulder and held it casually in front of his torso.

"All yours."

"Never worked directly for anyone famous, but I've had a few interesting meetings. My principal was at a movie premiere not too long ago. Now, you gotta understand, crowds aren't really her thing, but she went as a favor to a friend. Anyway, suddenly this guy decides to try and get a handful, right? I see him from behind, and I know if I don't stop him, Amir-  sorry, Miss Dayan will take his head off right there on the red carpet. I reach out and grab the dude by the arm to politely suggest he back the hell of...I'm looking right at Joey fucking Bishop."

Spencer took a last drag from his cigarette then dropped it to the ground and snuffed it with his toe of his boot as they approached the target area. When the Springfield was offered, he got a sly grin and took the weapon. He checked the chamber and the sights, then walked to the firing line. Taking a moment to look the weapon over, he remembered the week or so of training at Ft. Campbell when they did proficiency on these babies. Too bad they weren't standard issue for his regiment.

Glancing back at Felson for a second, he quipped.

"You Rangers get all the pretty girls."

With that, he took his stance at what appeared to be 300 yards from the target. Before he even touched the trigger, he glanced toward the tree line to observe the movement of the branches to show wind direction. Only then did he take the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. Next, he adjusted the scope to match the range, then pulled back the bolt and loaded the .308 round into the chamber.

He waited until the slight breeze wisped away, then pulled the trigger, just like he did on his Garand.

And the round went into the dirt. But somewhere near the target.

With a chuckle, Spencer shook his head, not entirely surprised at that outcome. But then, he remembered a sharp swipe across the back of the head from a certain Gunnery Sergeant Lewis some 20-something years ago that had come with some sage advice.

"Now remember, a sniper is not like any other rifle. You have to be gentle with the trigger. Pull it halfway- then hold your breath. Don't blink- then pull the trigger the rest of the way...."

Spencer re-cocked the bolt and loaded another round. Following those directions, he hit the target. Perhaps a little outside the center, but respectably.

Securing the weapon, he turned and handed it to its owner.

"Like I said- I'm better in the dark."

"Nah, hey, that's a good shot right there."

Felson retrieved the weapon and handed over a small telescope in the exchange. He readied the bullet in the chamber then took his position on the ground. The barrell of the rifle was placed onto a small square hay bail. Felson squirmed into a comfortable position and set his eye behind the telescopic sight.

With the unlit joint still holding its place at the side of his lips, Mickie slipped right back into marksman mode. His hearing became magnified and his nerves hardened. Some said, all a soldier needed after the war was a brand new war to fight. They weren't wrong, as it was rare his PTSD showed itself when he stepped back into his role as a shooter.

With a quick calculation, Felson set the bullet into orbit with a tender squeeze. He didn't fuck about. There was no time to when the real action started. You just locked in, sometimes for days, until the job was done, but when not stalking, every second wasted felt like it was another opportunity for the enemy snipers to pick off your men.

The bullet hit the target a little closer to the centre than Spencer's, but not by much. He figured he'd be a better shot based on his training, and his ego, but the guy held his own and then some.

Felson pushed himself up and took the rifle with him. He disarmed it with a flick on the bolt. He was smirking.

"Close!"

The Springfield was slung back over his shoulder.

"And now you gotta do a job for me."

Felson casually relit his joint, took a quick puff and handed it forward to Spencer.

Spencer, with his arms crossed casually in front of him, watched with a healthy respect as the soldier took his shot. Snipers were a whole different breed- even among Special Forces types. He made the shot and hit the objective about as easily as taking a piss. Squinting, Spencer could see that his round made it about a half-dollar width to the left of his own. He also could tell he was going to have to give up and see about glasses sooner or later. Probably later. 

"Hell of a shot, man. And that's a slick weapon, too. Fires like a dream."

He was reaching into his pocket for his pack of smokes when he heard Felson mention doing a job for him. Spence looked up, surprised, and found the joint proffered to him. 

"Oh, no thanks- I've never touched the stuff, plus I've--"

Then, he paused. For some unknown reason, he could just picture Garrett giving him one of those haughty little rich-boy smirks and making the sign for "chicken." 

"Ahh, fuck it."

Spencer reached over and took the tightly rolled joint. What could one hit do, anyway? He took a long drag and passed it back, inhaling the pungent smoke and feeling it against the back of his throat. It prickled and burned quite differently than cigarette smoke, and he found himself fighting pretty hard not to cough before exhaling. 

"This job gonna take more than three hours?"

The rumbling of clouds playing their gypsy tune overhead caught Felson's attention. He gave a look skyward as he received the joint. He fumbled and dropped it on the ground.

"Well..."

He held the gun firmly against his side as he knelt down, carefully fingered the joint and stood back up.

"Well, it won't be for awhile.."

Another grumble from the Gods above. The joint was pretty much close to being on its last legs, so he gave it the tweezer treatment for a puff then offered it back again.

"I gotta do some homework first but I'll need a shooter. You good with that?"

Felson adjusted the Springfield as he took a casual look around. His eyes were a little heavier and he felt his mind a little slower to formulate his thoughts into words, but he was use to the effects and it was part of why he smoked.

The slowly building rumble of thunder caught Spencer off guard, too. Thunder was never his friend. Thunder sounded too much like detonation- near or far. He ducked slightly, his fists tightening a bit until he looked up as well and realized where the sound had come from. 

Purposefully, he controlled his breath like Garrett had shown him, and watched as Felson rigged the remainder of the little joint onto a pair of tweezers. That seemed a funny contraption, and he started to wonder why it was needed, until he realized his compatriot was talking to him. 

"...I'll need a shooter. You good with that?" 

Spencer blinked. What had he missed? A shooter for what? And when? How had he missed half the mission objectives already? That thunder must have shaken him up more than he realized. But the younger man had proven himself worth his salt; and Spencer had never once left a man behind. So, he just nodded and took the joint again for one more drag.

"I gotcha. I've got back up on my shifts if needed when you're ready to move. We're here for a couple more days."

As he handed the disappearing toke back over, Spencer thought he felt his brain shift. Physically. He turned his head to one side, and was surprised to find that it seemed to take his eyes an unusual number of seconds to catch up. He turned his head to the other side and found the same thing happened again. He blinked. 

"Woah. This...this stuff hits kinda fast, huh?"

Felson took the joint then let the gun strap drop off his shoulder. He gripoed it around its midsection as he leaned in closer to Spencer. He looked him over, checking his eyes and his reactions as he moved his head side to side in front of him, basically replicating what he was doing on his own.

Felson stepped back, licked the tip of his finger then stuck it into the air. He moved it left to right with a quizzical look on his face, as he checked which way the wind was blowing. He swung the rifle back over his shoulder.

"Yep, no doubt about it. You're certificated high."

The clouds continued to roll over the top of the range, slowly but surely becoming more and more dark and sounding their pre storm warning more and more.

"The job's not for a few days though. I'll fly you out and set you up with some digs when you're able. I'll even toss your boss a livener to make it happen. If not, it's no biggie."

Felson puffed once more on the roach then flicked it to the ground before stomping on it. He gave a nod to his now high companion.

"Look, we better get moving."

Rain started to fall in droplets here and there, one catching Felson on the cheek.

"I think I know a shortcut. Come on."

Felson began walkig with a hand pointed towards a track opposite to the way they had ventured. From where they were, a little off in the distance, you could see a green metal gate at the end of this gravel path. The fence it gave entrance through ran down the left side of this part of the range, and on the opposite side of the closed gate looked to be a wooded area.