The Rabbit Hunter

64

The Rabbit Hunter has less than one kilo of resistance in the trigger. It’s so weak that it almost isn’t there.

First you haven’t fired the rifle, then you have.

It comes as no surprise, but the action has no defined edges.

Now he can see black-clad, heavily armed police officers talking into their radios. An Alsatian dog is lying down on one of the gravel paths between the graves, panting.

Teddy Johnson looks around, puts the phone back in his inside pocket and fastens the top button of his jacket.

The thin crosshairs rest gently on the back of his suntanned neck, then move slowly down to the small of his back. The Rabbit Hunter’s intention is to hit Teddy Johnson’s spinal column just above his pelvis.

A branch from a tree moves across his line of fire and he waits three heartbeats before putting his finger on the trigger.

He squeezes it gently, feels the jolt in his shoulder and sees Teddy Johnson collapse to the ground.

Blood pumps out across the steps.

The bodyguards draw their pistols and try to figure out where the shot came from, and if there’s anywhere they can take cover, any safe place in the vicinity.

The Rabbit Hunter breathes calmly as he catches a glimpse of the shot man’s face, its look of terror. He can’t feel his lower body at all now, and is gasping for breath.

The bodyguards try to protect him, standing in the way of any further bullets, but they don’t know where the sniper is.

The crosshairs move down Johnson’s right arm. The trigger squeezes and his hand jerks as it is transformed into a ragged, bloody lump.

The bodyguards drag Teddy Johnson to the other end of the steps, leaving a dark-red stain across the stone.

People are panicking, running around and screaming as they try to get away. The stairs are empty now.

The American politician lies there, contorted with pain and mortal dread.

The Rabbit Hunter will let him live for nineteen minutes.

While he waits he strokes one of the rabbits’ ears with his fingers, feeling its thin cartilage move beneath his hand as the soft fur brushes his cheek.

Without losing sight of his target the Rabbit Hunter changes magazines, inserting heavier, soft-tipped ammunition, then he watches Teddy Johnson suffer, his drawn-out death-throes.

The first ambulances are already on their way into Döbelns Street.

The police are trying to organise the hunt for the sniper, but they still have no idea where the shots are coming from. Someone stares at the splatter pattern from the first shot and points in his direction, towards the roof of the nearby fire-station.

Three police helicopters hover above the blocks surrounding the church.

The paramedics have reached Teddy Johnson. They’re trying to talk to him, then they lift him onto a stretcher.

The Rabbit Hunter looks at the time again. Four minutes left. He needs to delay the rescue operation.

Calmly he turns the gun towards the steps leading down towards the French School, moving the crosshairs from a frightened man with fat cheeks to a middle-aged woman with a depressing hairstyle and a press badge dangling from her neck.

He only shoots her in the ankle, but the ammunition is so powerful that her foot is torn off and bounces down the steps towards the pavement. The blast sends her tumbling over, and she collapses onto her side.

The ambulances back away and panic-stricken people crouch down as they run away from the woman. An old man falls down and hits his face on the dusty path, but no one stops to help him.

The officers from the Security Police are trying to understand what’s going on, trying to save the life of the American politician as they beckon paramedics. Another ambulance turns into Johannes Street.

Breathing calmly, the Rabbit Hunter looks at the time.

Forty seconds left.

Teddy Johnson’s face is pale and sweaty. He has an oxygen-mask over his nose and mouth, and his eyes are blinking rapidly in panic.

The paramedics wheel the stretcher along the path towards Johannes Street. The crosshairs follow him, quivering over his ear.

They push the stretcher onto the pavement and the Rabbit Hunter fixes the sights on Teddy Johnson’s ear again, squeezes the trigger and feels the jolt from the recoil in his shoulder.

The man’s head explodes. Bone and tissue spray across the street. The paramedics go on pushing the stretcher for a few seconds before they stop and stare at the American VIP. The oxygen-mask is dangling from its tube by the side of the stretcher, and there is nothing where his face used to be but a small fragment of the back of his skull.