10. Dane

10

DANE

T he black and white linoleum of the diner gleams from overzealous polish. It goes with the chrome stools with their cherry red, glitter-accented padding, though. A towering jukebox in the rear complete the illusion that I’ve brought Selene to a 1950s diner.

“Come on,” she says, pulling on my arm, her eyes like drops of melted chocolate as she stares at me with all the love and adoration I’d ever hoped for. “You have to try the chocolate malt.”

“I never understood the difference between malts and shakes,” I say. The jukebox looms. It’s a lot closer than I thought it was. A lot bigger, too. It must be eight feet tall. “This looks exactly like the jukebox at the rec center when I was a kid…”

I try to read what songs are available, but it’s all gibberish. Must be a foreign language model. The sensation of Selene’s silken arms embracing me from behind makes me stop worrying about the jukebox altogether.

I turn around and pull her into my embrace, seeking out her lips. Our kiss spurs my heart to a thundering pace. I pull her into the bedroom, then look around in confusion .

“Wait, weren't we just in a diner? How did we get here?”

“We drove, silly,” she says, kissing me on the chest and tugging my clothing. “Hey, do you want to do a little roleplay? I could be a cheerleader, and you could be a quarterback.”

She steps back, clad in the classic blue and white of a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. A grin spreads over my face.

“That’s hot as Hell.”

“Or I could be someone else,” she says. “Like maybe, one of the victims Hans Klaus killed after you failed to take the shot?”

Her head jerks back, amid a spray of crimson. A scream tears from my throat as I fall to my knees. I roll Selene over, and her sightless, staring eyes tear my soul apart. She’s dressed in a burka, the muslin stained hopelessly with red.

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head and standing up. “This isn't happening. This isn’t right.”

What was I doing back in Estonia? And why was Selene here? I look down at myself and realize I’m wearing urban camo.

Just like the day my life changed forever, and so many others lost their own.

I know this must be a dream. I keep willing myself to wake up, to no avail. Helplessly, I go through all the same motions as I did on that day.

“Dane, get your ass into position,” the voice in my ear snaps. “Klaus’ town car is nearing the target zone.”

“Copy that,” I say, even though I know what’s going to happen. I rush up steps of crumbling concrete, exposed rebar coated red with rust. When I hit the twelfth stair, it fractures into a shower of dust and I nearly stumble.

Just as I did back then, I hope that the stairs will hold long enough for me to get to the fifth floor and take my shot. Klaus is an anarchist whose beliefs in an egalitarian society have driven him to madness. His paramilitary group is one part cult, one part terrorist cell.

He needs to be taken out. I know it, everyone knows it. Even though I know how this will end, I still feel the same surge of excitement as I reach the top floor.

I have to tamp that down. Marksmanship is all about divorcing yourself from the moment. Some people, like my buddy Cole at Platinum Security, imagine feeding all their emotions and anxieties into a flame.

Instead, I imagine a scalpel separating me from my emotions. The secret to hitting your target every time is treating it all like target practice. Smooth, clean, and efficient is your goal, not passion-fueled sprays of bullets.

Normally, I do that just fine. I slice my mind in two with the imaginary scalpel and I get my business done, and then I stitch them back together. But on that day, and in my dream now, I can’t do it.

I can’t divorce myself from the disgust and fear I have for this man. Klaus is pure evil in my estimation. He’s killed children and gleefully boasted of it, saying that finally the elites know what it is to fear losing their progeny as they do in third world countries every day.

It’s one thing to kill an adult, but a kid? Kids are off my shit list, as they should be off of everyone’s. Maybe because I never got a fair shake as a kid, it stings a little more.

The set-up is perfect. I have a clear shot, wind is nil. Klaus’ death should be an academic foregone conclusion.

I take aim through the sights. He appears in my crosshairs as he exits the vehicle. I don’t aim for his head, which is a small, frequently mobile target. I aim for the dead center of his chest instead. Much easier target to hit, and with the ordinance I’m using it doesn’t matter if he’s wearing a vest or not. It’s a kill shot either way.

My finger curls around the trigger. But someone else gets out of the car. Someone half Klaus’ size. A child.

I remember reading that Klaus had sired several children. It was in his dossier. It’s one thing to read about it, and another to see Klaus holding his son’s hand.

Klaus is too dangerous to be allowed to live. I still have the shot. The child is too short to present an obstacle .

But something’s wrong. My heart thuds like a dance club beat, rapid and loud. Sweat pours into my eyes, and I can’t see. When I shoot Klaus, his son is going to witness death up close and personal. He’s going to be covered in his father’s blood.

But I know that if I don’t act, I’m going to lose my shot.

Klaus moves toward the structure, his son rushing ahead. It’s the perfect opportunity, yet I still don’t fire. In another second, I’ll have missed my chance. I have to act. But even when I pull the trigger, I know I’m too late. The retort of the rifle makes the bodyguards scramble for cover, but Klaus is already out of sight.

I know what happened next in real life, but my dream logic is all over the place. Instead of a mad scramble to get off my perch so the ground pounders can take their shot at nabbing Klaus, I find myself back in my apartment, watching a news story unfold while trying not to collapse under the weight of fully-justified guilt.

…Source of the blast was said to be an IED. When first responders arrived on the scene, a second, concealed device detonated, causing a dozen more deaths and almost a hundred injuries, some of them serious. International fugitive Hans Klaus has claimed responsibility for the bombings, which were designed to garner support for his paramilitary anarchist movement…

Dozens of people dead. Many more injured. And all because I didn’t take the shot when I had the chance. On paper, Klaus should have been dead. Instead, my failure turned into one of his greatest successes.

I thought at the time that Navy Brass would come down on me like a ton of bricks. Instead, I only had to deal with one formal inquiry which concluded that while I had failed, I had not been derelict in my duties. It was probably the first time a sailor ever thought the Navy was going too easy on them.

In my dream, I do just what I did in my memory. I go into my bedroom and open the closet door. Inside, I input the code into a gunsafe and the door unlatches. I take out the .38 revolver, flip off the safety, and put it to my head.

If Harlowe hadn’t called me right then, I probably would have pulled the trigger. In my dream version, however, no one calls. I pull the trigger, like I didn’t with Klaus, and–

My eyes snap open. Sweat drenches my body, and suddenly the room is stifling. Selene lays placidly beside me, in a deep slumber. Her arm drapes across my chest, fingers splayed on my ribcage. Normally I would take a moment to savor this, but right now the room is oppressively hot, and I feel like I can’t breathe.

I slide out of bed, too upset to do it carefully. Selene stirs as I slide on my pants and jam my feet into shoes.

“Dane?” her voice carries with it the thickness of recent, deep slumber. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” My voice is tight as a drum. “I’m just going to check the compound. You should go back to sleep.”

My tone comes out a little harsher than I intended. I can see the disappointment and the hurt in Selene’s eyes, but she only nods.

“Okay. Be careful.”

I don’t reply as I head out of the bedroom and then exit the front door. Night insects create a cacophonous chorus that drowns out the thundering of my heart. I stare up at the moon, and wonder how everything can seem so normal when I’m falling apart on the inside.

Not even the recent, wonderful experience of sleeping with Selene is enough to draw me out of my despair. Nothing can, really. Just like nothing is ever going to bring all those innocent people back to life. I may not have planted the bomb, but I’m just as guilty as Klaus. Not only am I a trained shooter, I’m considered by many to be a great shooter. Skilled enough to instruct the next generation of snipers, at the least.

And yet, on a relatively simple assignment with very high stakes, I failed to deliver. Part of me wonders if I will always fail in the end.

A warm breeze sighs through the trees surrounding the compound. Nothing and no one on two legs but myself and Selene for miles. I wonder if Selene knows the real reason I’m out here. She’s pretty damn sharp. I can’t run from my past, or the memory of failure. No matter how hard I try.

It was stupid to get involved with Selene. I’m in no condition to be with anybody. Hurting Selene is the last thing I want. Being with Selene is the thing I want most.

Being with her will lead to hurting her. It’s for the best if I cut things off now, before the water’s too deep.

If it isn’t already.