2020-07-23 - La hora de salida

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure.

At five oh four in the morning on a Tuesday, a blue Ford F-150 truck pulls into the dusty lot behind M&P Marine Repair, and swings into the second empty space from the left. One of the ones marked with customers only, violators will be towed, and the engine's cut with a rattling shudder, like the shifter cables need tightening.

Inside the truck sits Gray Harbour's current acting Chief of Police. A man who some would say is wholly unsuited to the job in both temperament and business sense; because isn't that what Thatchery was, at the end of the day? A businessman? A politician in cop's clothing. And Captain Javier Ruiz de la Vega is many things, but a politician is not amongst them.

He checks the time on his watch. Five oh eight. His car keys are shoved into a pocket of his jacket, and he does a quick, cursory check of the rearview and side mirrors before popping the glovebox and removing a few items. A key. A box of .50 BMG cartridges, set on the passenger seat beside him. A mil spec scope and a box of reticles; the latter's set on his lap, and a pair of black leather gloves fished out and tugged on. Then the circuit with the rearview and side mirrors is performed again. Another glance at his watch. Five sixteen.

A water taxi's horn blares in the distance, and a gaggle of seagulls scatters from the incoming vessel. Ruiz looks over briefly, then reaches for the black bag in the back seat of the truck. The one containing a partially assembled Barrett M95 that it's only semi-legal for him to be in possession of at this very moment. He unzips it, shoves the ammo and other accesssories inside, zips it shut again and hefts it onto his lap. Then pulls one last thing out of the glovebox. The case for his glasses; the ones he bought, and can't bring himself to wear, since that fucking doctor told him he was shortsighted, of all things. Him. But if he's going to do this right, well.

He opens the case, looks at them for a few moments. Wire-framed and fucking nerdy as hell. Another glance at his watch. Five twenty-two. Then he slips them on, nudges the nosepiece to push them a little higher on his face. Barely recognises himself in the rearview mirror. The sun's starting to wash over Gray Harbour by the time he climbs out with the bag's strap slung over his shoulder, slams the truck's door. He squints as it hits him slantwise, and starts trudging the two blocks toward Bayside Apartments. Looks like it's going to be a hot one.

The bored guy at the gate recognises him, he's been here often enough, and buzzes him in; nice to see you again, Captain, congrats on the promotion. The doorman knows him well, too. Asks him which floor he wants.

"Eighth floor, thanks."

"Not the Penthouse, today?"

"Not today, Anton. I've got other business."

"No problem. And hey, congrats on the promotion, Captain."

The elevator dings when it reaches the eighth floor, and Ruiz steps out, and slips the key he'd taken out of the glovebox of his truck, from his pants pocket. A glance left and then right confirms he's alone in the corridor, and he raps on the door to 802 with his knuckles to confirm it's unoccupied before using the key to unlock it. His heart's hammering as he steps inside, shuts the door. Drops the deadbolt. That old, familiar surge of adrenaline like his body knows what's coming.

It doesn't take him long to get set up; he asked Byron for an hour, but in truth, he won't need it. Not if he does this right. The rifle, he can assemble in his sleep. The window coverings take a little longer to get right, and he's off by a few minutes for the angle of the sun, but he can compensate. He can adapt.

He settles in, and it's easy. It's too easy, to fall right back into this. The rhythm of his breathing, and all else that he is simply.. ceases. Just those crosshairs, and they don't leave any room for doubt. They don't leave any room for uncertainty. Death at this kind of distance is not pretty, and it's not kind, and it's not fair. But neither is what these men have done. Turning on him, betraying him. Men he has to work with, laugh with, drink with and rely upon to have his back when the chips are down. And they did not have his back.

And he's going to make an example of them. Starting with this one. Starting with Zakrzewski.

A flicker of movement catches his eye, and he adjusts his sights slightly to follow it. It's him. He's climbing out of his car, which Ruiz expected. But there's someone else with him, which the cop very much did not expect. And he admonishes himself for it. How could he not have known. How could he not. Another slight adjustment of his rifle, and his crosshairs lines up with a little girl, Zakrzewski's daughter. Four, maybe five. He follows her for a few seconds, too; she tugs her hand away from her father's and skips off to investigate a fat worm on the warm asphalt.

Eventually, he lowers the rifle. Unloads the clip, unscrews the scope, and starts disassembling the weapon. The hunt's off.

The hunt's fucking off.