Читать книгу One September Morning - Rosalind Noonan - Страница 6

Iraq, 2006

The king is dead.

Americans will no longer turn on their televisions to watch him run the ball through a pack of hulking football players, breaking free to lope into the end zone. Viewers of the nightly news will not see him in a combat helmet and desert khakis, flashing a smile and telling a reporter about a community program he facilitated to get school supplies for Iraqi children.

He won’t come bounding into the barracks to roust the guys for a race or to hand out the candy or nuts or clean cotton sheets he just received in a package from home.

No more soldiers gathering to bask in the presence of the king.

No more jokes from the big guy.

No more photographers aiming their cameras to capture the king in a battle stance, the almighty warrior.

The king is dead, slain with this weapon cradled in the hand of the man who knows him so well. Chee-ee-oom! He pumped the hero full of lead. That was all it took to bring the big man down.

Now the sweet, biting scent of oil stings his sinuses as the new king rams the cleaning rod down the barrel of his M-16, removing all traces of the crime.

Not that it matters, as no one has a clue that he fired off the rounds that spawned a flurry of gunfire in the dark Fallujah warehouse.

Nobody realizes he deliberately aimed and killed Army Specialist John Stanton, big-ass football player, All-American hotshot with a charmed life and a trophy wife.

Nobody knows that a new king will soon take Stanton’s place.

He checks the spring, and then lubes it—lightly. Oil it up too heavily and you’re in trouble—one of the tips he’s learned and heeded in military training. He learned from the best of them. His old man used to tell him, you never break the law unless you can get away with it. Well, he’s getting away with it now, and it feels damned good. He felt a surge of adrenaline when the bullets exploded from his rifle, a swell of satisfaction as the impact pushed the body back in the darkness. The first shot was nice and clean upper arm, in through the armored vest. Thank God for the NOD, the night operation device that illuminated hot spots, making it easy for him to find to his target.

Just like a freakin’ Xbox game.

And the sheer beauty, the perfection of the killing, is that no one will ever suspect him. Why would they? People thought they were friends, buds. No one could see the hatred he felt for John. The great John Stanton, football hero, patriot, and philosopher. Such a load of crap. John with his megabucks job, celebrity profile, beautiful wife. John with the picture-perfect family, the old man retired army, Mom a freakin’ saint, a brother who was his best friend, and a kid sister who idolized him. When you have it all, people adore you and want to give you more. But why should John have all those things when he has zippo?

Yeah, yeah, life is unfair. But nobody says you can’t make a few changes to even the score.

He fits the two parts of the rifle back together and replaces a pin. John’s death is just the first step in restitution. With the king out of the way, he can move in and scoop up some of the goods left behind. What guy wouldn’t want a piece of that wife…a place in the perfect family? And who knows, if he can get close enough he might have a shot at some monetary gain, too.

Rest in peace, Johnny boy.

And don’t worry about the good life you left behind. He smiles as he removes the soiled patch from the end of his cleaning rod. I’m ready and willing to jump in your boots.