The Missing American
Lying flat with the stock of the long-range rifle pressed firmly against his shoulder, the assassin positioned himself on the gable roof of the UT Bank building. His legs were stretched straight out in a V on either side of the roof’s ridge. He would have preferred a flat surface, but the advantages of this location easily outweighed any drawbacks. From this angle, he had an unobstructed view of the road through the Zeiss scope.
He waited. When the moment arrived, he would place the pad of his right index finger on the trigger, rather than the crease between the first and second joints. That could result in a sideways torque on squeezing the trigger. So could wrapping the thumb around the buttstock. Leave the thumb straight on the stock pointing forward to the end of the barrel. That was what he had learned in his first days as an officer in the Ghana Police Service’s SWAT Panther Unit.
Now he was one of the best marksmen among his peers. Unfortunately, the recognition the GPS had afforded him didn’t come with a fat paycheck. It was his freelance work as a sniper that bought him the good life—a nice car, good clothes, new furniture. And women, of course.