mentally reviewed the day’s plan. Like a 3D topographer’s map, all the important physical details of the assassination rose in his mind. The location of ground zero, the obstructions, like cars, trees and nearby buildings, the placement of his sniper—he could zoom in on each quarter of the kill zone and then efficiently pull back a degree and again review the physical details.
Cormac O’Bern, a famous modern Irish poet and an American poet laureate, would be honored for his body of written work as well as his international peace-promoting propaganda in a library renaming a quarter mile northeast of the duplex. The ex-IRA member had always had the gift of leadership and a love of Hollywood. Now he traveled the world with an entourage worthy of a movie star and spoke the words rock stars to politicians wanted to believe about attaining worldwide peace. All they had to do, Cormac claimed, was believe.
Peter scoffed at such juvenile ideas. Peace was an imaginary friend to human beings, no matter their socioeconomic status, religion or nation. The figurative image of peace helped them sleep at night. Like the image of God, it gave them hope in the face of tragedy, illness and loss. But it would never materialize, no matter how badly they wanted it to because it only existed in their mind.
War was real. Struggle was real. Peter didn’t believe in peace any more than he believed in the leprechauns his mother had claimed lived in the woods behind his childhood home. His mother had believed in everything…God, peace, four-leaf clovers. She’d reached for hope in any element available. When Peter’s father died in a retaliation bombing outside a pub in Belfast, Roberta had blamed bad luck and unrepentant sin.
Peter had blamed peace.
Roberta then turned her back on Irish Nationalism, betraying her dead spouse and her son. Five years after burying Peter’s father, she married his archenemy, a parliament member with secretive ties to the British spy group MI5. She bore William Kent two daughters.
On the third floor, Peter entered a cramped room gutted to squeeze out floor space for a small home gym. As he moved toward a tall, skinny window where he could look across the neighborhood and nearby park, he caught sight of the barricades already erected near the library. Traffic was being diverted around the block. From this distance the black and white police cruisers lining the street looked like Matchbox cars and the large green sign over the library’s entrance was clearly visible but unreadable.
He unrolled the canvas, uncovering a tripod and rifle. Carefully, he spread the canvas flat and snapped the tripod into a standing position. As he anchored the rifle to the tripod, the leather gloves hindered his fingers, slowing down his usual efficiency. Even though they were snug-fitting stretch leather, he couldn’t get a good feel for the metal under them.
Grunting, he removed one of the gray gloves and threw it to the floor in frustration. The leather made a soft smacking sound, the glove landing palm up as if in defeat. Peter took a deep breath, yanked the ball cap off his head and ran his forearm over his sweating forehead.
The gloves were a necessity. A fingerprint was too easy to leave behind. No matter how carefully a person wiped off surfaces they knew they’d touched, the chance at leaving behind an errant fingerprint was high. Forcing patience into his fingers, he also forced it into his mind. He could not afford to leave behind such blatant evidence. He returned the cap to his bald head—there would be no hair fibers left behind either—and slid the glove back on his hand.
Once he attached the rifle to the tripod, he removed a scope from inside his overalls, fastening it to the top. He peered through the scope, adjusted the coordinates and read the library sign. Cormac O’Bern. The Power of Peace.
Cormac and Peter had been inseparable during their teenage years. Cormac, a few years older and wiser, had
Cormac O’Bern, a famous modern Irish poet and an American poet laureate, would be honored for his body of written work as well as his international peace-promoting propaganda in a library renaming a quarter mile northeast of the duplex. The ex-IRA member had always had the gift of leadership and a love of Hollywood. Now he traveled the world with an entourage worthy of a movie star and spoke the words rock stars to politicians wanted to believe about attaining worldwide peace. All they had to do, Cormac claimed, was believe.
Peter scoffed at such juvenile ideas. Peace was an imaginary friend to human beings, no matter their socioeconomic status, religion or nation. The figurative image of peace helped them sleep at night. Like the image of God, it gave them hope in the face of tragedy, illness and loss. But it would never materialize, no matter how badly they wanted it to because it only existed in their mind.
War was real. Struggle was real. Peter didn’t believe in peace any more than he believed in the leprechauns his mother had claimed lived in the woods behind his childhood home. His mother had believed in everything…God, peace, four-leaf clovers. She’d reached for hope in any element available. When Peter’s father died in a retaliation bombing outside a pub in Belfast, Roberta had blamed bad luck and unrepentant sin.
Peter had blamed peace.
Roberta then turned her back on Irish Nationalism, betraying her dead spouse and her son. Five years after burying Peter’s father, she married his archenemy, a parliament member with secretive ties to the British spy group MI5. She bore William Kent two daughters.
On the third floor, Peter entered a cramped room gutted to squeeze out floor space for a small home gym. As he moved toward a tall, skinny window where he could look across the neighborhood and nearby park, he caught sight of the barricades already erected near the library. Traffic was being diverted around the block. From this distance the black and white police cruisers lining the street looked like Matchbox cars and the large green sign over the library’s entrance was clearly visible but unreadable.
He unrolled the canvas, uncovering a tripod and rifle. Carefully, he spread the canvas flat and snapped the tripod into a standing position. As he anchored the rifle to the tripod, the leather gloves hindered his fingers, slowing down his usual efficiency. Even though they were snug-fitting stretch leather, he couldn’t get a good feel for the metal under them.
Grunting, he removed one of the gray gloves and threw it to the floor in frustration. The leather made a soft smacking sound, the glove landing palm up as if in defeat. Peter took a deep breath, yanked the ball cap off his head and ran his forearm over his sweating forehead.
The gloves were a necessity. A fingerprint was too easy to leave behind. No matter how carefully a person wiped off surfaces they knew they’d touched, the chance at leaving behind an errant fingerprint was high. Forcing patience into his fingers, he also forced it into his mind. He could not afford to leave behind such blatant evidence. He returned the cap to his bald head—there would be no hair fibers left behind either—and slid the glove back on his hand.
Once he attached the rifle to the tripod, he removed a scope from inside his overalls, fastening it to the top. He peered through the scope, adjusted the coordinates and read the library sign. Cormac O’Bern. The Power of Peace.
Cormac and Peter had been inseparable during their teenage years. Cormac, a few years older and wiser, had
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