The sniper lay flat, next to the tall oak tree.
He was practically buried in shrubs.
His face adorned with thick camouflage paint.
If I told you he was there, you still may not spot him.
His back ached. His neck ached. He took a deep breath, and let his muscles relax.
He took a few more deep breaths.
He felt better. His eyes never left his arc of fire. He couldn't. He was trained to wait.
The wait was the worse part of a sniper's job.
From the recce, the setup, the concealment, the wait, the shot, the exit. The wait was the worst.
You never know when the target is coming.
And you only have a small window, sometimes as short as five seconds, to take the shot.
What was that?
A movement in the distance? A mirage? Just a wild animal?
The sniper leaned into his scope, his trigger finger instinctively slipping into position.
His breathing slowed.
His whole body slipped into a paradoxical state of relaxation but intense focus.
He waited. Seconds passed. Then minutes. There was no further movement.
The sniper had been waiting for hours now.
It felt more like days.
It would be better if something was happening, but it was quiet. It was desolate.
His thoughts floated to his family, to his friends. To his hobbies.
But he had to snap back to focus. Can't miss the opportunity now.
Sometimes bugs would crawl around. Sometimes big ones.
But he could not move. He could be spotted. Someone could be watching.
He waited. Together with the sound of the wind, the dance of the sun, the hum of the trees.
The wait was the worst.
He suddenly felt a strange feeling. His ears told him something that his eyes couldn't.
It was not what he heard, but what he stopped hearing.
The bird chirping in the distance had went silent.
His master eye went back behind the scope, and he prepared for a shot again.
His breath slowed tremendously, he braced the butt of the rifle and gripped the trigger.
'Come on', he thought, beads of perspiration trickling down the side of his face.
His crosshair trained on the edge of his arc of fire.
The target appeared.
