The crosshairs rest just above the target’s spine.
Cold zero.
That’s what we call these shots. No chance to learn the pull of the rifling, or the lie of the scope.
The flag flutters slightly in the wind. I adjust my aim half a degree left.
I’ve scored seven kills this way in Afghan. A lifetime of war, Medal of Honor to show for it.
I exhale halfway out, gently squeeze the trigger.
You thanked me for my service, then sent me out again. And again. No more.
I turn and walk away as the crowd’s cheers turn to screams.
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alt="Stone Jaws by Evan Baughfman"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Mannequin People by Michael J. Stiehl"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Gator by Randall Andrews"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Rude Awakening by Richard Lau"
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>