Redemption

The man lay behind a knoll of grass, sheltered from view by a row of hedgerows. Ahead of him lay the sprawling grounds of an estate. Normally secure as a fortress, patrolled by armed guards and hounds, it now lay deserted. Abandoned except for one sole occupant, in whose pursuit the man had come here.

He was weary & exhausted but he couldn’t stop now, so close to the end. “One last kill” he reminded himself “the one that will end the killing”.

There was only one problem. His target had a bodyguard, someone he had not faced before. As he reloaded his rifle in the gathering darkness, he was forced to admire the man’s skill. He had proved a worthy adversary, moving and firing with the skill of a trained soldier. He had stayed hidden behind the trees at the far end of the grounds, revealing only glimpses of a camouflage jacket, never offering a clear shot. Any sudden movements by the man himself were met by a volley of gunfire, accurate and deadly.

He frowned as he pondered his next move, knowing he had to act fast. With darkness went his chance of capturing his foe. And then he heard a voice coming from the far recesses of his mind, a voice from his childhood. “Practice the art of deception. Misguide your prey, outwit it”

As a boy, he had frequently gone hunting with his older brother. Like most young boys his age, he had grown up idolizing his brother. It was his brother who had taught him to hold a rifle, to aim and shoot at a moving target. Adjust your scope, steady your hand, squeeze the trigger gently. Always smooth, calculated movements. Leave the hysterics to the movies.

They always hunted as a pair. As one approached, the other stayed hidden, covering the animal’s escape route. In case either one was noticed, the animal would bolt the other way and offer a fair chance to the other.

His brother, for all his skill at hunting, was a kind soul at heart. Even as a child he seemed wise beyond his years. He couldn’t resist helping anyone in need, had a strong circle of friends, and someone or the other was perennially looking up to him for advice. He earned the respect of everyone in the town. “His father’s son” they called him.

In fact, it was largely his brother’s way of helping those in need, secretly bolstered by his own love for firearms, that had influenced the boy to join the army. Inspired by the motto of “Courage, valor, sacrifice” he had enlisted, aspiring to serve the country. He was instantly popular with his colleagues and respected for his skill with a rifle. Then war struck, and his regiment was called to the frontlines. He was among the first wave of soldiers to drive the enemy back, and he was rewarded for his valor on the battlefield with a promotion and a commendation from the chief of army staff himself. He seemed destined for big things.

And then, when he least expected it, disaster struck.

It was a telephone call, a choked voice trembling across the distance, informing him of his family’s death.

He stood at the scene, shattered, the world crumbling around him; scarcely believing what his eyes told him must be true. It had been a cold-blooded, cowardly massacre, his family gutted while they slept. It was a case of revenge-killing, or perhaps one for profit, most likely both. His father had been the town mayor, and his fight against the local mafia was well-publicized. He was a courageous man who stood by his principles despite regular death threats, and he recently had the man widely believed to be the mafia kingpin formally charged and arrested. Now with him gone, there was every chance the prisoner would be out on bail and the case resigned to a slow death.

His brother, thankfully, had survived. Grievously wounded, he lay across the body of his father, feigning death. But the incident left him a broken man, a shadow of his former self. Leave alone the courage to stand up to the perpetrators; he seemed to have lost the will to live. He remained on in the house, in self-imposed darkness behind closed doors, forgotten by society at large.

But not the man. He was a soldier, a war-veteran. He seethed with rage and vowed to avenge his family, to wipe the murderers off the face of the earth. As in most small towns, nobody was a witness to the murder, yet everyone knew who was responsible. It was whispered in tea-stalls, mentioned in business meetings and discussed openly in drawing rooms, in fact everywhere except in the town court-room. But that was fine with the man; he had no need of court-rooms. 

The final act of the bloody two-year vendetta that followed was now taking place on the lawns of the enemy mansion. One final member of the mafia family remained. One last member to be killed, before it was all over. Before retribution was achieved.

The man now had his plan. He removed his cap and attached it to the scope. He dug a shallow hole in the grass and placed the rifle butt firmly in. He then fashioned a pulley by tying a thread across the barrel and slinging it across a low-hanging branch. He held the other end of the thread in his hand.

Pistol in hand, he crawled a few feet away and slowly pulled the thread. As the barrel of the rifle rose, it looked exactly like a man taking aim.

The ruse worked. An instant later a shot cracked through the air, piercing the cap and burying itself in the rifle. He let the rifle drop with a cry, and then, his heart racing, he slithered through the grass as silently as he could to a vantage point. Now when the assassin came out into the open to claim his kill, he would have a free shot at him.

He reached the intended spot, a little thicket of grass, took aim and waited, making a vain attempt to quiet his nerves, his heart beating like a sledgehammer. Any moment now!

Then, suddenly, he heard a stealthy footstep followed by the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked. Only problem was, it was behind him.  The air went out his stomach as he realized he was beaten. The enemy had seen through his ruse, circled around and now had him in his sights. The game was over.

And then his trained eyes glimpsed another movement to his left. His target, foolishly, had accompanied the assassin to the scene and was cowering behind a nearby bush. There was his chance!

A single word ran out clearly through the air. “Don’t”

The man grimaced. He knew what he must do.

As he bent down to drop his gun, he dived through the air, throwing off his attacker’s aim for the fraction of second it would take him to shoot. He somersaulted as he landed, coming up on his feet. In that same instant, he swiveled and brought his gun up to bear on the target.

“‘Crack”! A single gunshot rent the air. Then all was silent.

The bodyguard lowered his rifle and walked slowly to the soldier lying on the ground. As he stood over his little brother’s dead body, his iron control faded. He dropped the rifle and knelt over his brother, his eyes awash with tears, doubled over, sobbing.

After what seemed an eternity, he got up and took one last look at his brother. “I am sorry, my brother. I have failed you” he whispered, and walked out of there. Broken beyond measure, more ghost than man, he was never seen again.

A 10-year old boy stepped out of the bushes and looked tearfully at the soldier who had killed his entire family. He stepped over the fallen rifle and walked out behind his protector, the man who had killed his own brother to save his life.

The killing, finally, had ended.