Rangefinder

Far within the dark panelled, richly furnished, insanely, recklessly safe lair of the Predator, the Client raised the lead crystal tumbler, luxuriating in its delicious heaviness, swirling the smoked amber nectar, inhaling the Islay malt’s rich, woody bouquet as the flickering flames from the hearth danced in its fiery depths. “Show me the tools of your trade,” she said.

The Predator smiled. He had been anticipating this moment. He set down his own glass. The Client had probably guessed her host was drinking apple juice, or something equally innocuous. Having had her homework done thoroughly, she would know he never touched alcohol in the seventy-two hours before a coup. The last traces of an alcoholic drink were eluted from a healthy human body some forty-eight hours after its consumption. The extra twenty-four hours represented extra insurance. The Predator had never missed. He intended to make sure he never would.

One shot was all he needed. His clients knew that. He didn’t have very many clients, but the fees they paid him meant he didn’t need more. Every shot was a guaranteed hit. His was a business that carried no advertising budget. His track record - one hundred percent success - was the only agent he required. He was bold enough to hide in plain sight, for he knew law enforcement would never get near him. His clients, perhaps, need have good cause to fear the attentions of the police, but never him.

Excusing himself, the Predator turned his face briefly toward an electronic sensor, and a lock clicked open. With a flourish, he swung open a pair of ornate walnut cupboard doors. The Client’s audible intake of breath told him she was impressed.

“Will you be using a long barrel for this shot?” The key words were breathy and almost sensual.

“I shall have, er, a range of equipment at my disposal, ma’am,” the Predator replied. “Please forgive me. The finer techniques and points of my art, I prefer not to discuss, in advance of an engagement. Afterwards, however, once the job is completed to your satisfaction, I shall be more than happy to share the technical metadata.”

The Client nodded slowly. “And if the, er, engagement, were to be necessary in less than perfect lighting conditions? In the evening, perhaps? Would that affect your assurance of a perfect outcome?”

“Not at all,” replied the Predator.

The Client turned from the cabinet with its impressive contents - an arsenal that had brought down more than one public figure who had thought themselves impregnable - and set her glass down on the inlaid mahogany table. “Then the assignment goes ahead. It will be tomorrow or the day after. I shall be in touch soon, with final detail of time and place.”

Leaving behind the faintest trace of expensive perfume, the Client showed herself out, swishing briefly and elegantly through the cold winter air of the secluded Fitzrovia mews, before stepping into the rear seat of her waiting limousine.

Snug within what he liked to term his Hunter’s Nest, knowing he had several minutes before the Target came into his ambit, the Predator allowed himself a few moments’ quiet reflection.

The Nest wasn’t a fixed place, of course. The main thing was, each Nest had to be near the Target, with a clear, straight line of sight. It had to be a place of concealment, too. In other words, a place where no-one was likely to find him until he had taken the shot and it would be too late to stop him. This spot ticked every one of the Predator’s boxes. It was far from the most difficult hidey-hole he’d ever accessed. God knew, he’d inveigled himself into some tight spots. The private Caribbean islands had been the most challenging. Those places, you could only get certain people to ferry you there, the fare in direct proportion to the great risk they were taking.

This Nest was much closer to base. For the umpteenth time, the Predator marvelled at his Client’s chutzpah. Not only was he holed up right in the heart of England, he was shooting from within the private grounds of the Target’s home. Or one of his homes.

“Your crosshairs have to be right between his eyes,” the Client had said. In her delicious, finishing-school English accent, it had been craws-hairs.

Pointing toward a postcard-sized photo the Client had brought with her, the Predator had replied, “Aubrey, he’s the one, right?”

His Client had nodded. “This is our one and only chance to nail him. Once you’ve taken the shot, you’ve got to get straight out of Dodge. Every second you stay there, you and I are in greater danger. Leave the equipment there, long barrel and all. I’ll compensate you. But take all the ammo with you. Got it?”

“One shot is all I need,” the Predator had replied, calmly. “Ma’am.”

“The world will thank us. God speed.”

That was the last time he had seen the Client. The Predator knew he would probably never see her in person again.

The moment was now. The Predator’s senses intensified as his target, the portly, elderly Aubrey, ambled into view, the picture of arrogant, smug self-confidence.

Aubrey’s guest was also in plain view and in the Predator’s line of sight. She was much more youthful than he. Comfortably four point something decades younger than the Target’s sixty-one years. 

The Predator hesitated, but only for a second. Nausea rose in his gorge as he placed the rangefinder’s cross hairs smack in the middle of that complacent, over-privileged, overweight visage. Patiently, with rock-steady hands honed by countless practice shots, he waited for the victim to move out of the direct line of the cross hairs, behind the target’s head. 

The perfect alignment came at last. The smirking lecher, in plain view, his victim’s innocent, trembling pinkness slightly blurred and to one side in the background.

With a smooth squeeze, the Predator took the shot. As always, his aim proved true.

Without waiting, as per the instructions of his Client, he gathered up what equipment he could, and left the cupola with all dispatch. It was a shame he couldn’t stay longer, he thought. It had been nice here.

The Predator delivered the spent ammunition, as promised, to the names and addresses the Client had given him. He knew who they all were, and he was well aware, from previous experience, of the old 2am deadline, although that had become less important now that the internet provided a continuous 24/7 news cycle.

By breakfast time, Aubrey’s lasciviously leering jowls, along with his sensitively anonymised, anxious, blurred victim in the background of the photo, were all over every online broadsheet and tabloid throughout the United Kingdom, Ireland, the rest of Europe and North America. As per the Predator’s trademark, there had been just the one shot, captured with an impressively long-barrelled Rokinon 650 1300mm telephoto lens attached to a mirrorless Canon EOS R5 camera body. The lens and camera remained in the Nest, in line with the distinguished Client’s specific directions. The ammo, a SanDisk Extreme Pro 1TB SD card bearing the precious RAW image, had escaped with the Predator, its contents shared among Fleet Street’s slavering lupine finest within a matter of minutes.

“Not a bad day’s work,” mused the Predator, as he checked the latest incoming credit on his phone’s bank app. “Not bad at all.”