The Hunted Hunter.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
An assassin meets his nemesis in another assassin.

Submitted: November 15, 2013

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Submitted: November 15, 2013



The hunter sat on the bough of the ancient oak tree and patiently waited for his prey to hopefully come creeping over the top of the hills.

It was a grand old tree cloaked in a fine coat of leaves, and let me tell you now, that this tree had stood there for hundreds of years, some say that King Billy had taken a piss against it as a young sapling, of course it is the tree I am referring too and not the Dutchman, but hell bells that would make it as old as that tree in Maryland, maybe they are brother and sister.

It could very well have being taken by a young boy to his new home so far away in the New World, as he sailed with his kith and kin impoverished from being treated as serfs by their new masters.

The sun shone from a clear sky and fired its rays into the hillside, never penetrating much beyond the perimeter of the oak’s branches and leaves, as the hour of noon approached.

He had sat here for nigh on two weeks each and every day and patiently waited, but nothing passed over the brow of that fucking hill, well at least nothing deviated from that godforsaken stretch of road that lead through the bogland of Mid-Tyrone, Northern Ireland.

Neither man nor beast wandered the barren landscape, just vehicles military and civilian passed along that road and death in the shape of a miniature missile did not strike a member of HM Forces.

Clarence Oliver Kitchener (old Cok to his men) was every bit a fine soldier and his record would show later that he was a killer of men for near nigh on forty years.

He had a bucketful of medals to his credit, his career as a sniper had taken him from the barren lands of the Artic to the sheep loving farmers of the South Atlantic.

He would return to his barracks late every third or fourth night and leave early the following morning at the crack of dawn. The necessities of life had to be collected as well as being disposed of.

Today had been no exception to any other day as he sat and enjoyed the smell of the leaves and the shade from the sun.

The shortest time between kills for his prey had been three days when William Duck and Percy Trowel had both been shot dead on the same spot on that hill and exactly at the same time 11.47AM. The longest time between kills was seven weeks and four days and nine hours and sixteen minutes.

Get all the facts before you embark on a mission and you have a better chance of returning with your head on your shoulders he would tell his men.

Clarence was not a man to leave things to chance and he was not a man to be trusted, nor would he allow himself to be deceived by anyone.

In civilian life he would be classed as a thug and would probably have spent most of his life in prison, but the profession that he had chosen kept him in full time employment and he wasn’t adverse to a bit of freelancing either.

The foliage was a fine green in colour and gave shelter to many of the birds and insects that were native to this sectarian and bigoted race of people that lived here.

Nine of his comrades had been killed on that road in the past fifteen months, and he was here to put an end to it. If he had to wait a month more, he would find that god damned sniper that killed from this hidden copse of trees and bushes.  

He would see him come over one of those hills as there was no other way to reach this copse, except through bog land and no one would want to get bogged down in that.

No, he would come from across those hills travelling as a local by car or tractor, or on foot, or even as a British soldier, who fucking knows the sneakiness of a sniper and at the opportune time disappear into the landscape and pop up with his McMillan Tac 50 sniper rifle on its tripod, and he would pop a round into your head and let me assure you that no matter how thick you think your head is, it will shoot through that head of yours, like a hot knife cutting through butter.

‘What, what the hell’ he yelps as he grabs his binoculars.

‘God damn, was that movement on the other side of that road, the bastard is here, where the fuck is he now, there he is the murdering bastard, what the hell is he doing slithering up the hill?’

‘He is like a snake, Jesus his camouflage is shit, there he goes again in a straight fucking line and the bastard has his gun on his back.’

‘How the fuck did this shit kill so many men, his stupidity and marksmanship must go hand in hand.’

‘Where in the bloody hell is he going?’

‘The 4 o’clock patrol will be along soon, it must be them that he is going to hit.’

‘Christ almighty I am going to kill this bastard today, and tonight I will be the toast of the Massereene barracks, booze and birds and botty will be mine for the taking.’

‘The patrol will pass that hill at 16.02 and at 16.03 that fucking thaig will be dead.’

His eyes opened wide with surprise and he cursed himself for gazing at that fucking hill.

He knew where every stick and stone lay, yet he had paid scant attention to his tree which had become his daytime home.

Those god damn branches were not there yesterday as his brain exploded …………………… never trusted anyone he didn’t, says his commanding officer, he shouldn’t have trusted his surroundings, after all things can be deceiving especially in familiar surroundings.



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