Smashwords Edition The Sandman Cometh “I should have you shipped off to the nearest cat shelter so you can mingle with the rest of the pussies,” General Maynard Stallworth said to the stone-faced sergeant standing in front of him. He tipped his large coffee mug to his lips, never taking his eyes off the sergeant. “I guess all the hype I heard about you being such a bad ass was complete bullshit. Get out of my face, coward.” I got your coward right here, you fat bastard, fearless, Master Gunnery Sergeant, Roman Tate thought as he focused the crosshairs in his scope. That week-old conversation he had with the portly, leather-faced general replayed in his mind. Being called a coward pissed him off in a major way. Being called a “pussy” pushed him over the edge. Waves of rage still radiated off him. It took all he had not to blacken the eyes of the pasty-faced general that very day. The morning sun appreciatively warmed his camouflage kill suit. He blended into the surrounding shrubbery superbly. As he settled in and waited for his target to emerge, he thought about the so called “failed” mission in Sierra Leona that led to him being poised on the hill he currently occupied. All he was told was an African warlord referred to as “Shaggy” who had a reputation for slaughtering entire villages, had run afoul of a very influential friend of the C.I.A. The need for a clandestine operation required the services of America’s finest assassin. A bird landed on the barrel of his rifle, then quickly flew away once it realized it wasn’t a branch. They should have gotten that clown Barry to do the job; his conscience left him years ago. Roman was well aware of the reason his closest rival wasn’t chosen; his lack of self-control and enormous ego. The last mission Barry was assigned, seven innocent bystanders were eliminated along with his target. He wiped a bead of sweat off his temple. Can’t believe that ass called me a pussy! After all the work I put in for this phantom agency, he should be kissing my ass from one side of this globe to the other. Everything had sucked about the mission. The heat, bugs, poverty, transportation, bad food combined with an impacted wisdom tooth made him one miserable killer. To top it all off, his new nemesis, not-so-fondly referred to as “Shadow,” had been getting under his skin. Shadow would taunt him with information no one would know unless they were walking in his footsteps—like a shadow. He had no idea he would run into another person he despised as much as C.I.A. director, Colin Mason. I wish him and Shadow were on the other end of this barrel. He was kidding himself. Taking out Colin would be difficult, but not impossible, but Shadow was an entirely different situation. How do you track a ghost? Even with all the contacts, gadgets and skills he had compiled, he was no closer to locating Shadow than he was the first time he answered Shadow’s scrambled call on his specially designed satellite phone. The fact that he was unable to locate the enigmatic Shadow added to his ever-burning anger at the whole military machine. Movement in his scope momentarily took his mind off his anger issues. Crap, that’s not him. He took a deep breath, wiped a bit of sweat off his forehead, then returned to his thoughts. As soon as he had parachuted out of that transport plane over a patch of Sierra Leone jungle, his instincts told him it was a bad idea. Having only been given four hours’ notice of the assignment, he wasn’t as comfortable with the mission as normal. As he glided to earth, into the jungle, he thought about the sixty-five women and children Shaggy and his mob had machete and burned to death days before he was informed of his mission. Any sick-fuck who would murder that many children deserves to meet the devil quick, fast and in a hurry. After hours of trudging through miles of danger-infested jungle, Roman came upon Shaggy’s camp. Just as he was positioning himself for a kill-shot, high up in a tall tree, his phone vibrated. His good friend, and one of the world’s most wanted criminals, Cuba-based, Jorge “the terror” Olcina, gave Roman some very interesting news. Part of his prep for any mission was to do research on his own. He needed to get as much info on Shaggy as he could find. The dickhead that had ordered him to take the mission—General Stallworth—gave him some vague information, and dismissed him when he insisted he needed more. The general had told him that all he needed to do was follow orders and kill the bastard. After thanking Jorge for the quick update, Roman was beyond pissed. It turned out that Stallworth didn’t want Shaggy eliminated for his murderous atrocities; it was something, in his eyes, much more important. Shaggy had somehow managed to mail a dead rat to Stallworth’s granddaughter, with a message to stay out of his country’s business. A familiar figure entered the crosshairs of his scope, breaking him out of his memories to the present. Showtime! The familiar adrenaline rush he got when he sighted his target set him in motion. He waited for the perfect shot and returned his thoughts to Shaggy. As he pondered the new information from Jorge, he had prepared to put a .50 caliber slug into Shaggy’s brain. Shaggy had just emerged from a tent, en route to an armored Jeep. The fact that he had killed so many innocent people—especially children—was reason enough for him to delete the terroristic ass-hat. The IFB in his ear crackled as the leader of the team asked what was taking Roman so long to take the shot. He told the speaker to shut up and placed his finger on the trigger. A split second before giving the fatal squeeze, three kids hopped out the Jeep and embraced his target. Shaggy bent over and picked up the smallest child. The only shot he had would have killed Shaggy and mentally destroyed his children. Innocent children. The happiness in that baby’s face made the decision for him. He took his finger off the trigger and watched as Shaggy and his kids entered the Jeep and drove away. A string of obscenities filled his ear as the team leader went ballistic. Roman told him to fuck off and snatched the ear piece out. As he sat in that tree, watching the sunset, he knew he had just retired from the military. Being used like a tool for petty crap wasn’t to his liking. Neither was taking the lives of innocent people—if it could be helped. Just have this last mission to complete, then I’m officially done with Uncle Sam. He returned to reality and focused on his new target. As he had done every morning for years, General Stallworth exited the Officers’ Club with a stainless steel travel mug full of coffee. As Roman had learned in his week-long surveillance of the general’s every move, he also took that time to call his wife. And as always, he would set the cup on the roof of the Humvee his driver chauffeured him around the base in, then place the call. Roman performed his kill-shot ritual. Just before pulling the trigger, he would close his eyes, take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, exhale slowly, focus and fire. The side of the general’s head filled his scope. So sharp was the image, he could see the crow’s feet around Stallworth’s right eye. Adrenaline shot through his system at break-neck speed. His finger touched the trigger. The image of the general’s brain matter decorating the side of the Officers’ Club wall filled his head. Hey, General, like I said; I got your coward right here. A millisecond before pulling the trigger, Roman moved the crosshairs off the side of general’s head onto his coffee mug. As the general gripped the handle of his coffee mug, ready to take a sip, the mug vaporized. All hell broke loose. Coffee covered the general’s face like a bad spray-on tan. The Humvee driver exploded out of the vehicle and ran over to the shocked general. Roman chuckled at the sight of the stunned general still holding the handle of his destroyed coffee mug in one hand and clutching his heart with the other. Who’s the pussy now? After a few more seconds of enjoying the melee, he quickly broke down his weapon and left the scene. It was time to pay a certain African warlord a visit only one of them would be leaving alive. “Thank God he showed some restraint,” Lincoln said from his perch, a couple hundred yards uphill from his deadly protégé. Having the ability to track his volatile super soldier via the micro-sized beacon he’d long ago planted in Roman had never come in so handy. He looked away from the image of Roman packing up his goods in the scope of his own sniper rifle. He knew that after being disrespected by the general that his hot-headed assassin would be out for blood—literally. And no matter how special Roman was to him, he couldn’t let him go around taking out his superiors, no matter how much they deserved it. He began packing up his own gear. Sure would have hated to have to eliminate my best shooter… would have been more painful than I care to think about. A day later, Roman booked his own flight back to America from Monrovia. He watched a newscast on CNN inside the terminal. They reported that the vicious rebel-leader Shaggy had been found in the middle of the night, in the back seat of his armored Jeep with his throat slashed. His driver was found unconscious, tied up in the front seat. Roman reflected on the pleasure he received from plunging his lucky knife through Shaggy’s jugular vein. Roman smiled. Mission accomplished The End L. L. Reaper is two award winning authors who write under a pseudonym to bring you the dangerously-sexy suspense series Black Widow and the Sandman. If you enjoyed this glimpse into The Sandman, you will love the series. Also be sure to get a glimpse of Roman’s future partner Jeanette “Black Widow” Mason in Birth of the Black Widow. Black Widow and the Sandman Series Full Length Novels Black Widow and the Sandman Hell Hath No Fury (Fall 2012) Stand-Alone Shorts Birth of the Black Widow The Sandman Cometh Follow L. L. Reaper: http://www.LLReaper.com