I went a few miles away from the house, then found a place to bury my getaway pouch. If the house was blown, the money, clothes and identification in this pack could keep me alive. No one would know about it but me.
The equipment was heavy, but it was only intended for the trip in. The trip back would be much more difficult, and for that I’d probably be in panther form. We didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for a shot, so the pack contained enough for a week in the jungle.
I made it eleven miles the first night, not bad considering the nature of the jungle. I was loving the endurance and flexibility my cat nature gave me; as a wolf I was able to stalk, but wolves were Pack hunters. My cat was better at stalking and ambushing. As the first light of the morning started, I looked for a place to hide for the day.
The human side would look at ground level, but this was dangerous and buggy. Instead, I removed a canteen and some food from the pack and stripped, placing the clothes in and zipping it up. I found a thicket where I could hide the gear and bury it in leaves and brush so it wouldn’t be seen. I shifted into my panther, shaking out my fur and sniffing around for danger. Satisfied, I grabbed the food and water in my mouth and padded over to a large tree. With a leap from the base, my claws dug into the bark and I climbed up into the canopy until I found a sturdy branch surrounded by greenery that would hide me from those on the ground.
I shifted back and balanced on the branch. I drank the water and ate the food, leaving them hanging over a forked branch nearby, then shifted back to panther form. Lying down, a front and a back leg on each side of the wide branch, I settled into a sleep. My cat side stayed alert to noises and smells, keeping me safe as I rested.
I climbed down as the sun set, and ate more food and drank the other canteen before gearing up and heading back out. I was making good time, by the time I stopped I was only three miles from my objective. I decided to hide and make my move to the target area after my sleep.
When the evening came, I was extra careful not to make any noise as patrols were possible. My goal was to make it to within shooting range of the villa and construct a hide that could keep me hidden for days, if needed. There was no rush as I picked my way through the jungle; every sense was focused on detecting patrols. I filled my canteens when I came across a spring, and drank my fill. Even at night, I lost a lot of water to the jungle climate.
I smelled the humans before I could hear them. I tilted my head back, my cat sorting through the many smells as I picked out each of their scents; there were three of them, at a campfire, and they were cooking beans. I gave them a wide berth, staying well out of sight as I got past them. They were a patrol, but as I expected they bedded down for the night.
It was just after midnight when I crested the final hill and had a view of the villa on the adjacent hilltop. I removed the binocular/rangefinder combination from its case on my belt as I knelt by a tree; from here, it was over twelve hundred yards. That was farther than I was comfortable, I had to get closer. I moved to the east, staying just below the ridgeline so I wouldn’t be silhouetted by the rising moon.
I spent several hours scouting and rejecting hide locations before I found one I was satisfied with. Two trees had fallen down the hill in an X pattern, creating an area below that was surrounded by branches and leaves. The front had enough cover to hide me, but not so much it would affect my shooting. I dug a spot for my backpack, covering it with leaves, then went to work on a hide for my human form in prone position. I carefully and silently cut away the protruding branches and roots and removed loose rocks until I had a spot cleared to lie down in. I spent time in front, laying additional vegetation into place until only a small opening was left for me to see and shoot through. Finally, I made sure my hide was invisible from the sides or behind. I couldn’t chance a patrol seeing me.
I went to the bathroom behind some other trees, then crawled into my hide and pulled out my binocular/rangefinder. My hide was about twenty degrees off the back of the villa, where the pool and outdoor kitchen were located. The chairs around the pool were at 640 yards, the driveway on the other side just over seven hundred. I was shooting slightly downhill, so I entered all that information into my ballistic computer and made the adjustments to my scope.
Shooting accurately at long range is difficult in part because of all the variables. My rifle had an ultimate accuracy of about half a minute of angle; that meant that even with a machine rest to take the human element out, it could be as much as three inches off in either direction at best. The bullets it fired were hand selected for consistency in weight and shape, and the cartridges hand loaded to an exact amount of powder. The bullets were seated at the depth that my rifle preferred; it had taken a week to find the right combination of variables to get the best performance.
Having a good rangefinder helped, as did a high-quality scope with repeatable settings. My rifle, which had been worked over by the Marine Corps’ finest armorers, was worth three thousand on its own. The Schmidt and Bender scope on top of it was worth another five. As the Gunny used to say, “Only accurate rifles are fun.”
The computer was set to match the exact bullet characteristics and exit velocity from my rifle, and then adjusted based on air temperature, humidity and wind estimates. The Marines had given me everything I needed to make this shot, the rest would be up to me.
I spent the first day observing and writing; the Marines taught never to just rush in and start shooting. I saw how many guards there were, what their patterns were and the times they turned over to their reliefs. I watched the people come and go, and the movement in the rooms. It didn’t take long to identify my target, now I needed to learn his patterns. Only then would I choose the shot that would not just take out my objective, but assure me of the best chance to escape.
Jose’ Hernandez was clearly a brutal man and leader, with a big appetite for food and sex. I watched the women enter his room, emerging hours later crying and bruised. They were the lucky ones. His son, Juan, was a real sadist. He liked to tie women to a frame by the pool, whipping them until they could barely stand, before he threw them over a chair and plowed them into unconsciousness. I didn’t feel anything for these men, I knew I could take them out. The human race would be better off without Jose.
On day three, I made my choice. Every night, just before midnight, after kicking his whores out of his bed, Jose would sit on a chair outside his room and smoke a cigar. The guard shifted at 0200, so half would be asleep and the others would have been on duty for four hours and would be tired.
I decided I would only keep my pistol and GPS with me when I ran for safety, so I removed my belt and looped it so it was over one shoulder, the pistol hanging under my other shoulder. I ate as much food and drank as much water as I could take, since I wasn’t bringing it out. I reached into the side pocket and removed the two grenades, one was standard and the other white phosphorus, a metal that burned at high temperature and extremely brightly. I removed the rest of my clothing and gear and placed them in my backpack, then set it back in the depression with one of the grenades under it. Removing the pin, I made sure whoever picked it up had a very bad day.
Tacked to a nearby tree, I placed Black Ker’s calling card, a tarot card. The card of Death.
I used the white phosphorus grenade to booby trap my hide. Tying it to the side of one trunk, I used a fishing line attached to the pull pin and tied it to a branch on the other side. If you crawled like I did, you’d be fine but if your butt was up, you were going to get lit up like a Christmas tree. I was hoping the combination would help cover up anything that could lead back to me or the CIA.
Finally, naked and tired, I crawled in and settled behind my rifle. I remained absolutely still, ignoring the bugs and my own hunger, pissing in place so there was no motion to be seen. I watched through the scope as Jose sated his passion on a blonde and a brunette. He kicked them out and went to his desk, fetching a cigar out of the humidor and cutting the tip off. Grabbing a lighter and a glass of single malt, he opened the sliding door and sat in the chair before lighting up.
I used my breathing exercise to calm myself, my cat helping to keep things calm. She loved the feel of the hunt, even with a gun. I settled into the shooting position that had become habit, taking one last deep breath and letting it out halfway. I had the crosshairs centered on his chest, there was not a breath of wind, it was perfect shooting conditions.
I watched the pattern as the aim point bounced with my heartbeat. Waiting for the lull in between, my finger pulled back a fraction of an inch and the rifle fired. I watched as the round traveled to its target; it smashed through the glass as he was lifting it to his mouth and hit him six inches below his chin. I saw the blood spatter against the wall behind him as he slumped down, then quickly scooted backwards out of my hide and shifted into my panther form.