Prologue
Some “special forces”… strolling along like it’s a walk in the park.
No… that’s not fair. I’m nitpicking.
We tracked them for six months.
Six months, for God’s sake.
Through these damned mountains, choked with impenetrable thorny brush.
In rain and in blinding snowstorms, they appeared like ghosts: silently planting mines and vanishing.
Only fire and destruction proved they existed.
But no one ever saw them. Not even the locals.
But ghosts don’t blow up bridges, burn equipment, or steal classified documents.
People. Flesh and blood.
Though I have to admit — masters of sabotage.
Special forces.
And now here they are — walking straight into our trap.
What happened? Why?
…Doesn’t matter.
What matters is catching the moment when that one — judging by his gestures, the leader — tilts his head…
and I’ll put a bullet right under his helmet.
What the hell are those idiots up ahead doing, thrashing in the bushes like elephants — branches bending against the wind…
Wait… he noticed…
He’s in my crosshairs.
He understood.
— Ambush!
He tilted his head — choosing where to fall.
Trigger. The metallic ring mixed with the explosion of powder in the barrel…
As always — a sharp zing…
Damn! My ears.
He’s down. Not moving.
The rest of the ambush tears the others apart.
They fight skillfully — but it’s over.
Silence.
Six months of exhausting pursuit and humiliating failures ended in a cold-blooded crossfire execution.
I’ll go see who he is.
So simple…
Just moments ago — a strong, agile body. Now lying face down in the grass.
— Hey! Corporal! Turn him over!
A pale face, smeared with dirt and blood.
— Who the hell knows! Take a photo. Wash him — give me some light!
Cold water from a flask washed over the lifeless skin…
But why am I not happy?
I know who I killed.
No… this isn’t what I signed up for when I became a sniper.
I know who I killed.
Damn it… damn it, damn it, damn it!
…
The stands of a packed stadium roar.
In the shooting sector — incredible excitement.
Everyone wants a glimpse of this virtuoso performance.
So young!
Look at that!
Unbelievable skill!
The young shooter, perfectly equipped, calmly and confidently places shot after shot right into the bullseye.
It feels as if the bullets travel along a taut string, flying straight into the center.
He finishes his winning streak, removes his headphones under deafening applause, and basks in the cheers, the cries of admiration, and a rain of flowers.
The most beautiful girls are already trying to pass him their numbers, hoping for a call and a date.
Locker room. Shower.
He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes with pleasure.
A long road of exhausting training and shooting sessions has ended in triumph.
He can relax. Dream.
The true art of a man — the ancient skill of striking cleanly, without a miss, providing for family and pack.
Beside him — a perfectly fitted carbine, personally sighted in.
When they are together, nothing can withstand the sharp eye and precise fire of a rifled barrel.
No living creature stands a chance — none: not a boar, not a squirrel, not an elk, not even a swift cheetah.
But there’s a tiny spark of sadness:
these targets can’t resist him.
And that makes it boring.
He wants real opposition.
A clash between the marksman’s skill and a chameleon’s stealth — against the experience of a true warrior.
Only then would he feel complete satisfaction.
To outwit someone trained not to be caught…
to slip silently through enemy lines and deal irreparable damage.
Special forces. Nothing less.
He imagined every detail: the nest, the timing, the light, the wind.
Not just shooting from hundreds of meters — but waiting, letting them pass…
then unleashing a deadly, dagger-like burst, dropping the commander.
— Dreaming? Get some rest. You did great.
The coach sits beside him, handing him a bottle of refreshing water.
— I want to become a sniper. Too bad there’s no war.
— Thank God for that. War is dirt, pain, and death. There’s no heroism there.
One moment you’re alive and laughing — the next, your insides are spilling at your feet.
— Come on. Imagine it: you’re in an ambush, unseen, unheard. You take out only those who are truly dangerous. One… two… three…
The coach looked at him — and the counting stopped by itself.
— So you just want to take lives that weren’t given by you?
Lives that are valuable, each in their own way, and precious to God?
— You’re such a bore, coach.
The champion stood up, ready to leave.
— Wait. If your dream ever comes true — I’ll be there.
But I won’t let you turn into a cynical killer.
— Hm. I’ll manage myself…
The coach stood, placed a hand on his shoulder — and looked at him like that…
— I won’t allow it.
The young man calmly removed his hand, met his eyes:
— We’ll see.
…
— We’ll see, coach…
He spat aside in frustration:
— And you didn’t stop me after all…
Damn… guess it wasn’t meant to be…