The WidowMaker…another piece of writing…unedited…the conclusion of Chapter XI…

Wilkins sat behind his desk, away from any windows or openings a sniper might use to target him. Some might say it was the actions of a man guilty of many sins, but Wilkins didn’t care what people said of him. Nor did he care others disliked him. In his mind it was better to be feared than hated. No one dared stand against him and his cohorts until this ghost of some long forgotten past came calling. “It doesn’t even matter,” Wilkins mused. “Whoever ‘s behind this has done me a favor. Saved me the trouble of wiping Smith and Tate from the board myself.” The concept of loyalty was lost upon such a man.


“Loyalty is for chumps, selfless service for losers, and professionalism for hookers,” he muttered. He pressed a button on his phone and said, “Send Commander Tompkins to my office, Betty.”


“Will do, Lieutenant.”


Moments later, Tompkins entered the office and shut the door. Wilkins pointed at a chair in front of his desk, and Tompkins sat down. Wilkins sighed and clasped his hands together. “What’s going on, LT?”


“I need you and your men to find whoever is taking out the people around me. Don’t be subtle. Ger out there and beat the bushes, find the perp, and then end them.”


“Understood, LT.”


“Good, report to me when it’s done.”


Tompkins stood and walked out of the room, and for the first time in two weeks, Wilkins felt like things might turn out all right. Then, the alarms sounded throughout the building.

I secured my gear and took out what I needed. Initially, I had planned to fire a killing shot into the temple of Wilkins, but then I reconsidered. After all, there had to be a way to get to Wilkins. No one is untouchable, not even Wilkins. On the way to my gear, I phoned ATM using my burner and laid it out in steps. ATM chuckled and agreed to help me. In a backpack I loaded my Jericho 9mm with attached suppressor and HoloSun optic and three 17-round magazines. I didn’t think I’d need much ammunition once my plan went into effect.


But you could never tell. As our sergeants kept reminding us throughout training, “No plan survives first contact with, Charlie.” After the first round gets fired, it’s all reactionary from there. Alarms sounded from Risen Bank, and I smiled.


“Time to get to work.”

Wilkins heard the alarms and stuck his head out the door frame. The thud of heavy boots sounded throughout the hallway, carried is more like it upon the white, chalky tile that covered the floor. Swat members in black flak vest with SWAT printed on the back of them in white lettering rushed out the precinct and loaded into heavy assault vehicles.

“What is going on?”

Other officers poured out of the building and loaded into squad cars. The sound of squealing tires faded, as Wilkins walked toward the foyer. Every desk was empty of personnel save him and the desk sergeant.


“What’s going on out there?”


“I don’t know, LT. Someone called in from Risen Bank and said something about a suicide bomber.”


“At the bank?”


“Yep, do you know of a better place to send one?”


Wilkins didn’t answer and walked back to his office. He had no time for this nonsense, and besides, he was protected by layers of security. Once the suicide bomber got dealt with, he’d have scores of protections. He just needed to last until the sniper clipped the brain stem of the terrorist.


ATM locked the front door of the precinct after Wilkins went back to his office. This wouldn’t take long, but if it did, the few seconds it would take for the door to get unlocked, or broken down, would save his life. Now, it was up to the guy at the bank to sell the next phase.

Artie Smite, a homeless veteran, had agreed to help with the plan. A former grunt, he knew the thinking and tactics SWAT might use, and he volunteered to act as the decoy. Artie had no love of the police and had witnessed the abuse handed out by Wilkins and his cronies. He had walked into the bank at 0900.

One of the two security guards, an old white man and former schoolteacher, approached him and asked, “Can I help you, son?” Artie opened his jacket and showed them the vest.


“Put your weapons on the ground, or I turn us all into red mist!”


“Whoa son, you don’t want to do that,” the old guard had said putting his hands in the air. “Just take it easy…”


“Don’t play with me old man! I said put your weapons on the floor!”


The clatter of weapons hitting the deck sounded in the silent lobby, and Artie saw one of the tellers reach for the button to trigger the silent alarm. “Get out here and stand in front of the doors. Where’s the manager?”


An older woman came out of a small office and raised her hand. “I’m the manager,” she said tearfully.
“Lock that door, the rest of you line up in front of it.”


Employees and the security guards lined up in front of the door. Artie stood behind them, the dead man switch in his right hand. The wail of sirens filled the air as heavy vehicles rolled in and SWAT officers deployed. Squad cars set up a perimeter and snipers deployed onto rooftops. Artie smiled. He hadn’t had this much fun in years.

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