11 comments/ 39075 views/ 14 favorites The Sniper By: blushingwriter The fighting had finally moved forward enough that they let the medics into the city. Sara ran to the first solider she came to. He was already dead. She made to sign of the cross on his forehead. Said a quick prayer and moved to the next one. He at least was alive. She got to work. She got a line in and started dressing his wounds. Sara was on her ninth guy when the fighting stated back her way. Shots rang out from the building across from her. Sniper, shit! Sara grabbed the solider she was working on by the collar and proceeded to drag him into the building behind her when the shot hit her in the deltoid. She hit the ground and rolled back behind the wall. Her helmet came off as she came up cussing. Fuck! That bastard shot her. Didn't he know you weren't supposed to shoot the Red Cross medics? Guess not. Sebastian knew his shot had gone wrong as soon as he fired it. Well that's what you get when you're in a hurry. His next one would be good. He was very shocked to see the long brown hair and childlike face that greeted him when his mark reappeared. She was once again trying to drag the wounded solider into the building behind her. What the hell was a woman doing here? That's when he saw the Red Cross on her jacket. Fuck, he just shot a medic. To add to his guilt it was one of his men that she was trying to save. Well, to late to worry about it now. He got busy picking off more guys. Movement from his left caught his eye. It was her. She sprayed a red cross on the wall gave him a dirty look and ran off. Sara couldn't believe she had been shot. Well this was a war. She managed to get the solider into the building without getting shot again. She did what she could for him and then did what she could for herself. She knew she could not stay there all day so she suck up what courage she had and out the door she went. She stopped long enough to spray a red cross on the wall to let them know that a wounded solider was in there and spared a nasty look toward her gunman and went to see who else needed help. She didn't have to go far. Less than a block up was her next charge. Back to work. As she worked soldiers started running past her calling a retreat. They told her to come on but she had to finish first. She was not about to leave the guy she was working on. She had moved onto the next one when she heard the first missile coming. She threw herself over the solider she was working on. When the bomb hit she could not believe how loud it was. Sara swore her teeth were loosened from the impact. She sat up and kept working. When she was done she grabbed her stuff and headed back the way she came. The next bomb landed much closer and knocked her off her feet. When she stood up the world started spinning and then went black. Sebastian heard the air strike coming and gathered his gear and hit the road. He was rounding the corner when the first one hit. Close. He kept his footing and never stopped running. He had gone a few blocks when the next one hit. As he cleared the buildings he saw his little medic stand up only to go right back down. He should have kept going but he didn't. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and bent down to check on her. She was breathing. That was good. Her left shoulder was bandaged but her sleeve was soaked with blood. She seemed all right other wise, but he had no idea. He was trying to decide what to when she started waking up. Sara woke up to someone leaning over her. She thought it was another medic until her vision cleared and she saw a strange face. Then she saw the rifle on his back. She didn't even think she just shoved him away from her grabbed her bag and started running. After a block she looked back to see if he was following her. He was. Shit! Sara knew she could not out run him so when she rounded the corner she stopped and waited on him to come. Sebastian should have just let her go but he didn't. He took off after her. She was fast to be so small. He rounded the corner after her and got a face full of gear bag. It knocked him off his feet. He saw her kick his rifle away and start running again. As she passed him he grabbed her ankle and she went down hard. As he started dragging her to him he backhanded her. Sebastian thought that would take the fight out of her. He was wrong. She kicked him in the face and got up and started running again. She was knocked flat when a bomb landed nearby. As Sara got to her hands and knees Sebastian grabbed a fist full of her hair and pulled her back into him. He grabbed her injured shoulder with the other hand and squeezed. Sara heard someone screaming and realizes it was her. Sebastian eased his grip on her shoulder but kept his grip on her hair. She stopped screaming and fell back against the wall of muscle behind her panting. He pulled her up by her hair and she rounded on him. She planted an elbow on his cheek and screamed obscenities at him. Now he was pissed. He wrenched her head back and whispered harshly into her ear. "You want to fight me little girl. Okay." he flung her to the ground. Before Sara could get over the shock of landing on her wounded shoulder he was on her. Sebastian grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. Sara tried to kick him off her but he just tightened his grip on her until she couldn't breathe than he punched her in the face. God he hit hard. As he reached back for the next blow Sara used the space to put her feet in his diaphram and push. He let go of her throat to drab his stomach and she scrambled out from under him. She didn't get very far when she felt his hand tangle into her hair again. He snapped her head back into his chest and grabbed her by the shoulder and squeezed again. She gave him a heart wrenching scream. Sara's legs wouldn't hold her up any more and she fell to her knees. She felt him kneel behind her and she just leaned back into him. The adrenaline she was running on was gone. Sara laid her head back on his shoulder and started crying. She hated herself for it but she couldn't stop. She was in more pain that she had ever been in and she was so tired. The blood loss and the fight took their toll on her and for the second time that day her world went dark. Sebastian didn't know what to do with the sobbing girl in his lap. Crying was the last thing he had expected. But before he could decide whether or not to just shoot her and be done with it when she went limp in his arms. He brushed the hair from her eyes and looked into her face. God she was so young and beautiful. He felt his dick throb just looking at her. She was so small next to him. Like a child. A child that had almost kicked his ass he thought wirily. He couldn't leave her there with the bombing going on so he picked her up in a fireman's carry and grabbed her bag and took off. Sara woke up to the countryside passing before her eyes. She spun around to see were she was and instantly regretted it. God she hurt. Everywhere. She shook it off and looked around more slowly. She was in a truck and almost passed back out when she saw who was driving. The sniper. She let out a gasp and he turned to look at her. Sara was sure her heart stopped. All of her anger from earlier was gone. The only emotion she felt now was fear. She tried to calm down. He turned his gaze back to the road. She let out the breath she didn't even notice she was holding. After a few minutes Sara got the nerve to take a good look at her captor. He was big, very big. At only 5'3" Sara was used to having to look up to people, but this guy was at least foot taller than her. He was a good seventy-five pounds heaver. All muscle. Broad shouldered with dark hair and eyes. She couldn't help but think under different circumstances she would be attracted to him. God she must have taken a blow to the head sometime today to think like that. She rolled her head back and groaned feeling sick. Sebastian heard her groan and turned her way. She had her head laid back on the seat and looked like she might be sick. He watched her a moment more to make sure she didn't throw up in his truck and turned his eyes back to the road. What was it about this little American girl that had made him take her in the first place? Most women were so submissive which he liked but most gave up without hardly giving him a fight. They just laid there and took it. They were too compliant. He liked a challenge. He knew he had one in her. He was shocked out of his contemplation when she laid her head in his lap and went back to sleep. Sara felt him stiffen when she laid her head in his lap but didn't care. She was so tired and couldn't get back to sleep sitting up. She figured if he hadn't killed her yet she was okay for now. Wondering how she had gotten into this mess in the first place she fell back asleep. Sara woke up to a pair of strong arms lifting her from the truck. It wasn't until she was laid down on a couch that her mind finally cleared enough for her to remember where she was. Her eyes widened in fear as she watches to see what he was going to do. He just turned his back to her and went to the kitchen and came back with a glass. He took a drink and than handed it to her. "Drink" he said in thickly accented English. She reached out with a shaky hand and took it. He turned and walked away. It was orange juice. Sara drank it gratefully. When she was done she looked around for him. He was sitting at the kitchen table going through her gear bag. She got up on shaky legs and walked to the table and sat down. He lend over and started to unbutton her jacket. She grabbed his wrist to stop him. Sebastian liked the look of defiance mixed with fear he saw in her eyes when she grabbed him. Her grip was far from strong but guessed she would put up another fight even if it killed her. "I only want to look at your arm." Sara looked down at herself and couldn't believe the amount of blood on her. She looked back into his eyes and let go. He helped her out of the jacket and got up to get a cloth to clean the wound. She hissed in pain while he was cleaning her up but that was all. Once clean they could see that it was a through and through shot but not very deep. "It missed the bone at least" he said. She nodded. "What do I need to do now." he asked. "I need a shower." was her reply. Sebastian stared at her for a moment then said "Up stairs first door to the right." Sara got up and made her way upstairs. Once in the bathroom she sat down to pee and thought she would never stop. Finally with that done she got undressed and stepped into the shower. She set about getting herself cleaned up. She did the best she could and than just leaned against the tile. She must have zoned out because when she opened her eyes he was there looking at her and he was naked. Sara gasped at the site of him and her eyes went wide with fear. As he stepped in Sara tried to get out passed him but he was having none of that. He pushed her back into the wall and grabbed her by the chin and wrenched her head up to look at him. He saw her fear and smiled. She was so scared that she couldn't even swallow. He could feel her start to tremble. God she was beautiful. Even with the blood from the bullet wound he had given her running down her arm. She moaned in fear and it made his dick throb. Sara felt him harden against her and put her hands up to stop him as he lends down to kiss her. She turned her head and whispered "Please don't." "Why not." he said his voice thick with need. "Haven't you done enough to me for one day." she was shaking badly now fearing what he would do but unwilling to just let him have his way. Sebastian slid his hand down her neck and wrapped his fingers around her throat but only applied a little pressure. He felt her tense up and moved his other hand up from her hip to cup her breast. He rolled her nipple between his fingers and whispered "I am going to fuck soon and it's up to you how rough I get. If you fight me I will make it very painful for you. If you're good you just might enjoy it." While her tired mind processed that he kissed her roughly, passionately. Sara had no fight left. She just gave in to his kiss, which to her amazement was pretty good. He surprised her when he stepped back and began to bath himself. Well at least he had left her alone. After a minute he handed her the cloth and turned his back to her and put his hands to the wall and lend over. Getting the hint she washed his back off. Sebastian gave a start when she pushed the washcloth between his ass cheeks and started to wash him there. So she still had some spirit left, good. He let her finish and turned around put her hands to his chest and smiled wickedly at her. She swallowed hard and continued to bath him. She only slowed a little when she reached his genitals. She dropped the cloth and shocked him by soaping up her hands and using them to wash him off and looked him in the eye while she did it. She saw the surprised look he gave her and it was her turn to smile. Well if she was going to get fucked for maybe the last time in her life she was going to make the most of it. He had no idea that she had a very dark side of her own. Sebastian couldn't believe what she was doing but it felt so good. She was making it hard for him to think. He just lends his head back against the wall and moaned. God her hands were driving him crazy. He didn't know what had changed but he liked it. He reached forward and pulled her to him and kissed her again. Running his hands down her body he found her clit and started rubbing slow circles around it. Her grip on his cock tightened and a kissed him back. He was so near the edge that he had lost the ability to speak English and talked to her in his native Russian. Sara could not understand a word he said but, God he sounded so sexy. He bit her on the neck and she moaned softly for him. Sebastian had had as much as he could stand. Picked her and carried her out of the shower into his room and threw her on the bed. The look of pure lust on his face took Sara's breathe away. He pushed her back and rammed his cock into her to the hilt. Sara gave a small gasp of surprise at the sudden intrusion then groaned in pain. God it hurt. He was so big. The biggest she had ever had. It was almost as bad as her first time. If she hadn't been so wet she was sure she couldn't take it. Sebastian couldn't believe how tight she was. God she felt so good wrapped around him. He looked down at her and saw the pain on her face and slowed down. When she opened her eyes and looked at him and he could see the fire burning there. He gave her a moment to get used to the size of him then when she wrapped her legs around him he started thrusting faster. It only tool a few minutes of that and Sara had to bit him on the shoulder to keep herself from crying out when she came. Sebastian couldn't hold out at all after that and came along with her. He collapsed onto her but rolled off quickly remembering how small she was. Her eyes were closed but when he brushed the hair away from her face she opened them and looked at him. She could see the unmistakable look of satisfaction on his face and gave him a small smile. He smiled back. Not a smile of triumph. But a real smile, a warm smile. "What's your name?" she asked. Her voice barely above a whisper. "Sebastian" he said. He had forgotten that she didn't know. "Sebastian. I like that." then the events of the day overcame her and she fell asleep. Sebastian rubbed his finger tips against her cheek and watched her sleep for a moment. Shaking his head at the turn of events, he got up to go get her a new dressing for shoulder as she was bleeding all over his bed. After that he got back into the shower than climbed in next to her and went to sleep. The Sniper This story is not part of the Valentine's Day contest, even if characters and topics are tangental to the subject. * I looked through the Zeiss Rangefinder-binoculars again. The distance wasn't a problem — 25 yards is easily within range. The difficulty was that when you are in the man-made Grand Canyon that is mid-town Manhattan, you suffer from every other complication imaginable. Lighting — the buildings create visual effects of every kind: shadows, bright light, reflections. Winds — don't even ask me about the winds. In the city environment, winds come from nowhere and go in unpredictable directions; up, down, around. Every bus and truck screws around with the wind. You would be surprised what a factor the wind can be, even at such a short distance. People walking by interfering with your shot, cluttering up your sight picture. For shooting, the city sucks. They call me 'Spotter.' It's who I am, and what I do. Part of a two-man team, I spot, he shoots. And right now, I was wishing that I was in Iraq or in Afghanistan in the tribal regions, rather than here in the middle of New York City. But we don't pick our assignments, we just do what we're told, and try to make it through, day-by-day. For one thing, in New York, I'm not hiding behind some nice, clean, cold rocks in the mountains, or in the shadows of some long-abandoned building. I'm sitting next to a trash container, using an old, smelly cardboard box for concealment, hoping that it's not piss I smell on the wall that I'm leaning against. My shooter looks like he's asleep, but he's not. He's waiting for my signal to go. I just hope that I don't have to fight off another bum who wants to grab my fucking box. Suddenly the target appears, coming swiftly out of the building that we've had under surveillance. I elbow my shooter, "Target in sight," I whisper. "Huh, what, uh," he mumbles. Oh, for gods sake. He really was sleeping. Dumb shit. "Target in sight, you've got about two seconds before she's gone," I urged him on. "Twenty-five yards, wind from the left at two clicks, target moving right," I told him, giving him the data. "OK, OK, I've acquired the target," he replied. "Shoot at will," I said, giving him the go-ahead. I heard the twang, but I kept my eyes on the target. I didn't see a hit. The target was completely untouched. I scanned with the binoculars. There it was, Shooter had hit something, but it wasn't the objective. It was a fucking Poodle, quietly walking down the street, looking for a lamppost to pee on. Only now the dog has an arrow sticking out of his rear haunch. The dog looks up, and the first thing it sees is our target, Anya Petrova, one of the emerging supermodels in the world, as she steps to the curb, looking for a taxi. Goddamn optimist. "Oh, fuck," I quietly mouthed to myself, putting my hand over my eyes. I peeked through my fingers. The dog looks at Anya, and then reacting to the arrow, it comes after her. Anya hasn't even seen the damn dog yet. It gets within a couple of steps, and jumps towards her. The fucking, oversexed dog is grabbing her with his paws, holding on, trying to hump Anya's leg. I turned to Shooter in a complete rage, only to find him bent over in half, he's laughing so hard. "You fuck. You fucking asshole. You did that intentionally!" I exclaimed, no longer worried about concealment, stealth, or skill. I look back to see Anya kicking the miniature poodle off her leg, which the dog immediately tries to remount, and I see the tall, handsome, young up-and-coming politician passing her on the sidewalk, completely unnoticed, unloved. The whole damn operation screwed. Quickly we retreat out the other end of the alley, or I should say, I retreat pulling my shooter behind me, since fuckface still can't walk by himself for laughing. Our get-away vehicle is there, the driver waiting for us. It is disguised as a taxi, so no one will remember it, no matter how crazy the driver acts. I open the rear door and drag my partner in after me. As soon as the door is closed, the driver takes off. He's wearing a turban and has a beard. Talk about camouflage. Then I turn back to turd-brain. "Exactly what did you just do out there?" I demanded. Cupid turns to me, and once more started laughing. After a couple of minutes, he tried to speak again. "That was hysterical! Did you, HA HA HA, did you see the damn, HA HA, dog, trying to hump her, HA HA HA, leg?" came his almost incomprehensible reply. He went back to simply shaking with laughter, holding most of the sound in, his arms wrapped around himself, his whole body rolling back and forth on the bench seat. "Do you understand that your stupid sense of humor just botched the operation? Instead of Anya falling in love with her intended mate, you inspired a FUCKING poodle to fall in doggie lust with her," I explained, shaking my head, wondering how I could transmit my complete disgust at his actions. "Hey Spotter, don't take it so hard. HA, HA, HA, HA ,HA. You know how short a dog's memory is — it won't be in lust for more than a day or two. And most likely, it's already transferred its desire to some other dog. Or some other woman. HA, HA, HA!" Cupid tells me, trying to placate my offended sense of duty. "The damn DOG isn't the problem, shit-for-brains. It's setting up the situation so that Anya is perfectly intersected with that stupid city councilman, Golden, or Golder, or Goldman — you know, whatever his name is," I explained as if I hadn't been through this a million times before. The surprise is that I don't suffer from sky-high blood pressure dealing with this oaf. "Not to worry, Spotter. I got us covered. They are both completely anal about being on time, so they are in the same place, at the same time, every day!" Cupid paused, "Actually, I'm surprised that the powers-that-be need to send us out there at all. You would think that they would have noticed each other without our help." He shook his head, contemplating the situation. "Anyway, all we gotta do is show up at the same time, same place tomorrow, and I'll take her out then. Situation all fixed, Spotter happy," he concluded. I knew better than that. It never works out that easy. "It was just a harmless prank," came Cupid's next attempt at a justification. "Oh, yea. A harmless prank. Don't I recall you telling me that it was just a harmless prank when you shot Queen Tatiana with the arrow — just in time for her to wake up and see that moron with the donkey head? You know, I still cross the street to avoid Oberon because of that. You pissed him off royally," I recalled. "First, Nick Bottom didn't have a donkey head, it was a spell. Anyway, I laid it off on Puck. Oberon was in on it from the start, you know," came Cupid's hot retort. "How can you delude yourself so? It is an open secret that you and 'Puck' are one-and-the-same, EVERYONE knows! And Oberon is like all of the rest of that fairy crew; they remember what they want, and they remember things the way they want them to be, not how it was. So, according to his version, it was you and me who screwed the pooch. Didn't he claim that you were using some sort of eye drops, or something, not arrows?" I asked. Cupid waved his hand in dismissal. "Fairies!" he sniffed. I finally just gave up and gave in. "OK, OK, I'll put it aside. But tomorrow, we do her, and this time no jokes," I insisted. Cupid put up his hand, and I (reluctantly) gave him a high-five. "Tomorrow," he agreed. The rest of the day, thank the Gods, was uneventful. The waitress and the guy who worked for Con-Edison was easy. We got him right as she was handing him his piece of apple pie. Twang went the bow. The only difference for him was, instead of falling in love with his pie, like he did every other day; he looked up instead of down, and fell in love with the waitress. Easy as pie, to coin a phrase. The computer geek and the sales girl in the flower shop was harder. The geek was so shy, that he wouldn't even go into the shop; he'd stand there looking in at her through the window. She would never come out of the place, even for a break. Things could have gotten desperate, until I came up with a brilliant idea. I tossed a flare into the back of the shop, and pulled the fire alarm. After that, it was a classic. She hears the alarm, comes rushing out the door; twang goes the bow; she's hit, and then almost runs over our geek in her panic to escape. They both fall down, look at each other, and he helps her get back up. Thank god, she started talking to him, asking him if he was OK, could he use some coffee, was he hurt. I don't think we could have gotten him to say a word, that was how shy he was. But at last glance, she was leading him by the hand across the street to a coffee place, talking his ear off the whole way. If you don't mind, I want to clarify something here, before I go on. Shooter and I are NOT sent out every time someone is going to fall in love. We are, if you don't mind the analogy, the SWAT team of love — only needed in dire circumstances. I hate to disappoint you, but just because you fell in love doesn't mean that Cupid and me are responsible. Most of the time, we aren't needed, you manage to take care of the love-thing by yourselves. Although, given the 50% divorce rate, maybe you're not doin' too good, either. Not my problem. Let me give you an example of the kind of jobs we get: Victoria and Albert was one of our gigs. You have NO idea what an up-tight little thing Victoria was. Without ever having met Albert, she was ready to put her foot down and make it clear that she was the Queen, and she wasn't going to allow any of that 'fooling around' stuff. She was ready; she'd even practiced her line. As soon as Albert whipped out the old tool, she was going to look down at it and say, "Dass amüsieren uns night!" ("We are NOT amused!") Can you imagine? What a put down. They would have never recovered as a couple. Instead, the powers that be sent in Cupid and me. Albert walks up to be introduced, and 'twang' went the bow. Vicky looks up at him, and falls so hard, that she could hardly wait to drag Al into the bed chamber. She was just panting for it. I'm not supposed to talk about what goes on when the lights go out, so to speak, but I'll tell you this: between the sheets, Vicky was no 'Victorian' lady, she was a hot mama. That's why you never saw Albert without a big smile on his face, and Victoria turned into one of the Royal baby-making machines of the century. The funny thing is, it seems like to me, that the straighter the subject of one of our operations is, the harder they fall when they take the hit. Victoria was one example, from straight-laced to wanton hussy — at least in the privacy of her bedroom. Even worse was Isabella's daughter, Juana. It was a tricky op, since we had to make the hit over the shoulder of her husband-to-be, from a ship that was rocking and rolling just off the North Sea in the Spanish Netherlands. The ocean winds were blowing like crazy. But, twang went the bow, and it was mission accomplished. Juana and her man actually demanded that a priest perform a marriage ceremony for them right then, because otherwise they we going to start doing it immediately there on the dock! She was just crazy for that guy. That was even her nickname, 'Juana, La Loca', because after he died, she took his coffin with her wherever she went, so she could talk to him in the evenings. It's true — look it up! In any case, you get the point. Cupid and I are good at what we do, and we've been doing it for a long time. I suppose that's one of the reasons that every now and then, Cupid goes off the reservation and does some dumb-ass thing just to amuse himself. But it doesn't make it any easier on me. The next morning found us back, huddled under a cardboard box, next to the same filthy dumpster, waiting. Shooter was awake and alert this time, and I was watching the clock, and using my Zeiss binocs again to spot Anya as she exited her condo. "Roughly two minutes," I whispered. "I'm ready and waiting," came Shooter's reply. No sleeping on the job today. The seconds dragged past. I kept my eyes glued to the entrance, expecting Anya at any second. Suddenly I recognized the Councilman walking past the building, like he did every morning. "Get set," I hissed. Then I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more. Golden, or whatever his name was, had long since passed, but no Anya! "Fuck, where is she?" came Shooter's voice in my ear. "Did you miss her?" I turned to him, "She didn't show. You didn't take her yesterday, and today she doesn't show. We're fucked!" "What do we do now?" Cupid finally asked, "There's no point waiting if he isn't here too." I thought about it for a second. "We're going to have to reconnoiter. Find out where she is, and set up another time for the hit," I explained. "It might be a black-bag job." We started walking back down the alley to our taxi. "I'm getting a bad feeling about this whole op," I said. Shooter knew what I meant. "Hey, Spotter, I'm really sorry that I didn't just do her yesterday, like I was supposed to," Cupid told me. I was surprised, Shooter doesn't apologize very often. The last time was when he shot Samson, not his assigned target, Delilah. Instead of Delilah being desperately in love with Samson, Samson was desperately in love with her. But she never changed, never loved Samson, and was still a money-hungry bitch, and sold him out (sans hair) to the Philistines. SNAFU. The afternoon found us in front of Anya's building, in little blue and gold uniforms, with a brown bag full of cookies. Yeah, that's right; we were disguised as Cub Scouts. We were so cute, it was nauseating. Believe me, it was Cupid's idea. He told me that we were 'way too short' to try passing ourselves off as NYPD, my preferred approach. I have to admit, however annoying I found the disguise, it worked like a charm. We walked right up to the doorman, in the middle of the day, and said, "We're here to deliver the cookies to Mrs. Patterson that she ordered." The doorman looked us over, and started to say something, "I thought that the Girl Scouts sold the cookies... Well, never mind, the old memory isn't what it used to be. Can I trust you two young fellers to find your way up to Mrs. Patterson's by yourselves?" Then he winked at us. That fucking Cupid always has to walk the thin line, so what does he say? "Jeez, mister," he says, "Of course. We've got a compass and a map and everything!" Then he actually pulls out a compass and a map out of his pocket, and looks up at the guy and gives him a big grin. The doorman grinned back, and patted Cupid on the head, like some damn dog, opened the door and said, "All right. You two go in there and give Mrs. Patterson her cookies. You know, if you're real nice to her, I'll bet she'll give you some milk and share some of those cookies with you!" "Wow, you really think so?" Cupid replied, with all of the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old chocolate-chip addict. "You betchum, young feller. Mrs. Patterson's a real jewel. And tell her to save some for me, too!" he said, as he touched the brim of his hat and closed the door behind us. Thank God Shooter hadn't let me carry my NYPD-issue Glock; I would have used it. At least we didn't have to tip the guy. So we were in. We hurried over to the elevator, but instead of going to the seventh floor and Mrs. Paterson, we headed to Anya Petrova's condo on the ninth. The lobby of the building hadn't been anything much to brag about — very utilitarian, with laminated tile floors, walls painted in one of those colors so bland that they are always on sale when you go to the paint store. But once you stepped out of the elevator into one of the hallways, they were carpeted in thick plush wall-to-wall, the walls painted in warm tones intended to sooth the savage beasts, and make one forget the daily struggle with taxis, subways, and walking on the dirty NYC streets. We walked up briskly to Anya's condo, number 9C, which you could tell, even from the hall, would have windows on two sides. Très chic, and beaucoup bucks! First, we rang the doorbell. If she came to the door, we would fall back on the 'Mrs. Patterson's cookies' thing, apologize and be on our way. If she looked sick or something, we would get guidance from higher-up. But neither was the case — there was no answer, and we couldn't hear anything moving in the apartment. We conferred for a second, and then I stood there, holding the bag with the cookies, trying to block Shooter from view, while he got down on his knees and started working on the lock. Shooter is really good with locks, funny as it sounds. He can open literally almost any lock. But he doesn't do it with lock picks or anything mechanical. No, he 'thinks' them open. He gets on an eye level with the keyhole, and visualizes the mechanism, and 'convinces' the pins and tumblers to align correctly, and voila! The lock opens. At least that's how he claims he does it. Not my field of expertise, so I just have to take his word for it. But it does take a little time, say 30 seconds to a minute of his complete concentration. Of course, after about ten seconds, a neighbor in the next condo down opens the door and sticks his head out into the hall, and looks directly at us. "Hey," he calls, "what are you boys doing?" At this point he sees a couple of Cub Scouts standing in the hall, so he's not too worried or panicked, but he wants an answer, or we could be trouble. "We're here to deliver the cookies that Miss Petrova ordered," I told him, with my best cheerful, loyal courteous, kind, and helpful voice. I smiled at him, too. You don't know how much that cost me. "Hmmm...," came his reply, "I thought that the cookies were sold by Girl Scouts." I wish that Cupid was a little more careful when he put together our cover stories; it's always the little details that screw you up. "The Girl Scouts sell the cookies, but we do the deliveries for them. We cooperate. You know — change, hope, that kind of thing" I bluffed. "What kind of cookies are they? They sold us the most wonderful thin-mints last year," the guy asks, with a wistful look in his face. "HENRY!" came a woman's voice from the room, "Don't you dare buy any of those cookies. You know they are NOT on your diet." "Yes, dear," he called back to her, but he didn't go back into his condo. I quickly took out a pack of the thin mints, and tossed them to him. He caught them. "Here take 'em, just don't say anything to Miss Petrova. She bought so many, she won't notice one missing package," I whispered to him. "OK, great. Thanks!" he whispered back, and then he tucked the cookies under his bathrobe. Then in a stage voice, he said to us, "Thanks guys, but we won't be needing any cookies this year!" Then he winked at me, and went back in to his condo and closed the door. By then, Shooter had the lock open, and we slipped into Anya Petrova's condo. Just as we had suspected, the place was plush. Windows on two sides, so there was plenty of natural light. The rooms all had that professional decorator feel, just waiting for Architectural Digest to notice Anya and do a spread on how the average supermodel lives. The art on the wall looked authentic, mostly modern pieces that I could take or leave, but the Hogarth prints in the hallway got my attention. Tough; I didn't have time for art appreciation. We did a quick run through first, just to be sure that we were alone. We were — nobody home. Then a fast glance at the closets and drawers to check on whether it looked like her clothes were all there. Every closet was full, and it was expensive stuff. I guess I should have expected it: designer clothes, enough shoes to open a store (all of them those custom Italian, made-to-order variety), and I'm pretty sure that in addition to the run-of-the-mill minks, and fox pieces, that there was a full-length Russian Sable coat hanging there. Oh, the PETA people would have just choked. The Sniper It appeared, wherever she was, Anya wasn't going to be gone for long. To pin it down, I started looking for calendars, daytimers or something along those lines that might give us a clue. As I started looking on her desk, Shooter came into the room, holding a bottle of lube and a large vibrator/dildo in his hands. "Hey, Spotter," he quietly called, "take a look at this. I found it on the table next to her bed. This thing must be nine-inches long, and I swear its at least two- or two-and-a-half inches thick. Our girl must like 'em big!" "Just put 'em back, exactly where you found them," I hissed at him, and I went back to the task at hand. Then I saw the answering machine, and bingo, I hit the jackpot. I played the first message. "Anya, darling," came a woman's voice, "remember the limo is going to come for you at 6:00 A.M. for your flight to the Bahamas. Yes, my love, I know that is far too early to wake up, but you can sleep on the plane. Just throw a couple of days clothes in your bag — they will supply the bathing suits, and we are going to be on one of those really remote islands, so you don't need to dress for the night-life, because there isn't any. Two days only, this time, and you will be back in your own sweet bed. Ta Ta," and she hung up. So there it was. We had missed her because she had left three hours before we expected to see her. And now we had to hang in here for two days, until she returned. We left the condo, locked it behind us, and returned down the elevator. We were lucky and the doorman was busy with one of the tenants as we left, so all he could do was wave goodbye to us. We waved back, and got out of there. We returned to our camo-taxi and Shooter had the driver drop us off in the Theater District. Our driver had ditched the beard and turban, and today he looked and sounded like a Jamaican. He was always proud of getting his disguise right, and not falling out of character. Jeez... A 'method' get-away-driver — no wonder I go crazy working this job. God knows, I needed a drink. We walked into a bar, across the street from this theater with a huge evil-looking image of a green lady on the marquee. Once our eyes adjusted to the lower light in the bar, we walked up and took a seat. Cupid seemed to know his way around. A young guy, who must have been a bartender, walked over when he saw us. He didn't look pleased. "OK boys, I don't want to be mean or anything, but you're not allowed to be in here unless you're twenty-one!" he told us. Then an older guy, who had been serving a drink at the other side of the bar, looked up. "Excuse me, Mike. Could I have a word," the older guy asked. The young guy stepped away, and the older man started talking to him in a quiet voice. We could still hear him; we got great ears, me and Shooter. "Mike, them guys aren't kids. I know one of them. Shooter, they call him. They are part of the cast of," and he jerked his thumb to point across the street, "Wicked. They're Munchkins in the play. You don't want to piss off the theater people, so be sensitive. OK?" Mike responded OK, but then the older guy, who Shooter called 'Gus' walked over to us. "Sorry about Mike, guys. He don't know the theater crowd yet. Hope you'll cut him a break. Tell you what, let me get you the first round on-the-house," he offered. "Thanks, Gus," replied Shooter, "No problem at all. I'll take a Daniels and Diet Coke. Gotta keep the weight down, ya know!" Gus grinned at him and nodded. "And you?" Gus asked looking at me. "Do you have Herradura Tequila up there?" I queried. "Sure. Finest kind!" was Gus' experienced assessment. "Great. How about an Herradura Margarita, rocks, salt on the rim," I requested. "Coming right up," Gus said, and then turned around to fix the drinks. I looked at Cupid. "Shooter, I don't think there are any Munchkins in 'Wicked,' " I quietly told him. Shooter was eyeing some hookers at one of the tables in the room, smiling and making eyes at them, sitting with his back to the bar, his elbows resting on it. Without looking at me, he replied, "Who cares? Gus saw 'The Wizard of Oz' once, and is convinced that there are Munchkins in 'Wicked.' He decided that on his own, the first time I was in here. I'm not gonna argue with him." I shrugged my shoulders. Why should I care? It got us our drinks. A couple of hours later, accompanied by a couple of New York's vast horde of mercenary sex services providers — who also, it turned out, had a 'thing' for Munchkins — we staggered out of the bar and back to our room. I haven't been in an orgy like that since Caligula took us home to introduce us to his sisters. It was good that the next day all we were doing was waiting for Anya to return from her Caribbean photo shoot. We were exhausted after staying up all night, and had hangovers to beat the band. In the morning, we both boffed the girls a couple more times, then we all got dressed and went out for brunch. When Cupid was sending the gals home, he told them that they were some of the most licentious women he'd met since Madame Pompadour. They replied that he must be mistaken, because in New York City you couldn't even get a license for what they did! Blonds! The rest of the day we just kicked back, trying to recover. By Zeus' beard, I could barely walk, I was so sore in my vitals. Cupid must have been in similar shape, because he didn't even suggest going out that night. We ate at a fast-food place, went back to the room and slept. Tomorrow was the day — make or break, we had to do the hit on Anya Petrova. Early the next A.M. found us back across the street, using the same stinking cardboard box as a blind, waiting for Anya Petrova to walk out so we could shoot her with the arrow of love, just in time for her to fall in love with her NYC pol. I didn't tell Shooter, because I didn't want to make him nervous and also, it was on a 'need-to-know' basis, but this op was important. I didn't know all the details, but with Anya at his side, this guy was going up in the world. First, Mayor of NYC, then Governor of New York, Senator, and finally a shot at the top-slot — President. But for some reason, he needed to have Anya as his wife, completely and totally in love with him for the plan to work. We were both so nervous about this op, that we had arrived hours early to set up. We were not going to mess up again. Now, the hard part — waiting. About ten minutes before we expected Anya to show, I started scanning with the binocs again. Since I knew where her condo was, I even took a quick look up. The angle didn't let me get a good sighting on her, but I could see her hands opening the shades. I would expect to see her coming out right on time to go to the gym, and her regular, daily appointment with her personal trainer. Just like she had been going two days ago. The seconds passed, and the time was almost on us. I whispered to Shooter. "One minute to ETA. Winds gusting, estimate seven to ten clicks from right. Distance, 26 yards," I gave him the data. "Ready for go-ahead," Shoot replied, letting me know he was not going to let me down again. I scanned the area. There he was, Golden boy, walking at his normal pace, at the regular time, about half-a-block away. The intersection of the two love-birds should be good. The op was a go. I glanced at my watch. Seconds now. Back to the binocs. Then she was there. The door opened and out came Anya Petrova, our target. I could see the doorman's lips moving, and Anya laughing at what he said as she walked by. There was a rustle next to me, and I could sense as much as see out of my peripheral vision, Cupid/Shooter suddenly standing, pulling back the bow string. "It's a go! Target approaching," I warned him. "Target acquired," he replied. A quick scan to Golden boy revealed he was still on time, in place, walking into the set-up. "Fire when ready," I said, with an unusual intensity. That was when all hell broke loose. I started to swing the binocs back to Anya, when I caught a glimpse of movement. I swung the binocs back. From the side, there was a small, fast body, running towards the rendezvous point. It was that fucking poodle that Shooter had tagged two days earlier, running as fast as his little paws would carry him towards Anya Petrova! He was coming up at an angle from our side of the street, between Anya and Golden boy. Neither Anya nor Golden had noticed the dog. "ABORT, ABORT!" I started to shout, but I heard the twang of the bow, and knew it was too late. All I could do was cross my fingers. As I watched through my glasses, the damn poodle ran right into Golden boy's path. Golden didn't see him, and the two collided. The dog yelped as he was caught between Golden's legs, and Golden yelped as he fell flat on his face, on top of the stupid, love-sick hound. By this time, Shooter could tell something had gone terribly wrong. "Shit, shit, shit," I heard him repeating to himself. I couldn't take my eyes off the scene. I flipped back to Anya, just in time to see the arrow hit. The little shock of the arrow's impact showed briefly on her face, followed by 'the look'. The critical time, when the subject looks for the person or object on whom to lock his/her affections. But Golden was laying on his face fifteen-yards away. "Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap," was Shooter's manta now. Right at that moment, a limo stopped in front of the building, and out of the door came this guy. Not the 'Golden' boy, some other guy. He took about two steps up towards the building. Anya was about 5' 10" in her running shoes. This guy was maybe 5' 7", with two-inch inserts in his loafers. She had long blond, shimmering hair; this guy had short dark hair, and was bald on top. She was built, well, like a fashion model. He was built like a wrestler, carrying a few extra pounds. Anya's face was like an angel's, amazingly beautiful. This guy's face was, being generous, plain, but friendly. When she smiled, you were in heaven. When he smiled, you were glad you weren't in a dark alley, late at night. None of it mattered one whit. Anya looked at him with 'the look.' Her eyes got soft, a smile lit her face. He looked at her, and I will guarantee, only being able to see the back of his head, that he had that 'look' too. Without any of our arrows. "Wow, wow, wow! You are the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen," came his voice, with a thick New York accent. He was standing there, frozen in place, just looking at her. "You are not lookink bad yourselves, handsome," came Anya's reply in her heavy Russian accent. "I'm Anya, darlink. Vat is your name?" "Well, Anya darlink, my name is Sam," he replied, in a bantering tone, like he had encounters with the most beautiful women in the world every day. She laughed, her voice like bells. "You are teasink me, Sam. My name is only Anya!" she coyly teased back. "Well, 'only Anya', jeet?" he asked. "Stoh? I mean, pardon?" she replied with a quizzical look on her face. "Jeet?" Shorty repeated. "I am so sorry; my English is not being too good. Vat is this 'jeet'?" came her completely mystified response. "Oh, sorry, I'll talk slower — 'di chew eat? Hows about a cuppa java, or better yet, some knoshes? I know a great deli not far from here," he asked, not quite believing his fortune. "Ah!" Anya's face lit up with understanding. "Am I eatink yet this morning! Nyet. But this would not be interferink with your time?" she asked. "Baby, you can interfere with my time whenever you want, twenty-four/seven! I can go looking for another parking structure to buy any day of the week. Come on, Anya, this way," he said, and he took her hand and led her to the waiting limo. They crawled into the back seat together, and the car disappeared into the morning traffic. That was the last I would see of Anya for a long, long time. About then, Golden, the loser City Councilman came limping past Anya's building. About two-minutes too-fucking late. The poodle was running around like a crazy thing, wondering who had snatched his woman from him, like a big dog grabbing away his bone. Golden tried to kick the poodle and missed, falling on his ass this time. The poodle nipped his ankle and ran away. I just stood there in shock for a minute. Then I turned around to find Shooter. He was laying there behind me, flat on his back, his bow off to one side where it had come out of his hand. His eyes were open, staring up, not blinking. I walked over and stood there looking down at him. "Tell me what I think happened, didn't happen," he pleaded. "Sorry, Shooter. It happened," I sadly confirmed. "It's fucking Helen, all over again," he stated flatly, as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. "No, Shooter, it's not that bad. Shit happens. Sometimes things are beyond our control. Besides, it's not your fault that the God's had promised Helen to half the Kings of Greece. You did what Aphrodite told you to do, and that was an op to fix up Helen with Paris. And Aphrodite is the boss. So stop beating yourself up about it. I'm sure that this thing with Anya is nothing like Helen," I said, trying to console him. He was just sitting there on the pavement, looking miserable. "They went to war for ten years that time. Troy, burned to the ground. I always liked Troy, they had some great bars there," Cupid reflected. I helped him stand up, dusted off his back side, picked up his bow and handed it to him. "What do we do now?" I asked. "Back to Olympus?" "Not me. I'm thinking about taking a vacation in, say, Greenland for a couple of months. They tell me it's beautiful at this time of the year," he said, in rather unconvincing tones. "It's winter. It's all snow at this time of the year. What's with Greenland, anyway?" I asked, wondering what kind of weird idea Shooter had this time. "I'm gonna find me an Eskimo woman, and disappear for the next six-months or year, where no one will come looking for me," he told me. I nodded. None of the Gods would bother going to Greenland and searching among the Inuit to find a sulking Cupid, that's for sure. Later I saw the announcement of the marriage between Anya Petrova, Russian supermodel, and Sam Silverman, the NYC Parking Garage Magnate. No one and I mean no one, knew what to make of the whirlwind romance of Anya and Sam, followed by a huge wedding out in the Hamptons. Mutt and Jeff, they said, a badly matched pair that wouldn't last. I knew better. It was years later when I discovered that there was more to the Anya/Sam story than meets the eye. I was undercover, working as a busboy at the Russian Tea Room, when in walked Anya Petrova-Silverman and her long-time agent — the woman whose voice I'd heard on the answering machine almost a decade before. They were seated at a table that was close enough to my station that I could listen in pretty easily. "Anya," her agent asked, "You've been married to Sam for almost ten years; you've had seven children with him and now you tell me that you are thinking about an eighth! What is the attraction? You are even more beautiful now than you were ten years ago. You could have any man you wanted. What is it about Sam?" "Darlink, Sam is so sveet, he is the kindest man I know," answered Anya. "He's short," came the reply. "He is vonderful father to our chiltren," came Anya's repost. "He's bald," the agent answered back. "He lufs me, and is completely loyal," was Anya's reply, a glazed look of love in her eyes, just thinking of her Sam. "If you don't pick out his clothes, he dresses like a slob!" was the humorous response. "He is filthy rich, dushka," Anya said, laughing by this time. 'Come on, you're holding out on me. I can tell," the agent insisted. "Ho-K, Ho-K, I am tellink you, but this is completely between friends, da? Very bolshoi secret." demanded Anya. Her agent nodded in assent. "My Sam, he is havink, how you say, 10-inch cock, 3-inches diameter — very big round, you see? With this cock," her voice got low and husky, "he is fillink me. He is fillink me completely. And he is fillink me every morning, and every evening, sometime twice in evening." Anya's agent sat there in stunned disbelief. "OH MY GOD!" she finally stammered. Anya smiled and agreed, "Da, Booszhe moi!" (Yes, My God!) I though back to the huge dildo that Shooter had found in her room. I guess he was right — she liked 'em big! I went away that afternoon with a smile. Good for Sam and Anya. In fact, Sam and Anya were almost certainly a better couple than she and Councilman Golden would have been. When he was running for Mayor of New York City that year, he was arrested for lewd conduct and soliciting in a public restroom in Central Park, while campaigning on a 'return to morality' platform. I don't think that his political career would have survived THAT, even if he'd been married to Anya. Maybe Shooter didn't do so bad after all! * I hope that my transliterations of Russian words aren't too confusing. There are several 'standards' for converting Russian words from Cyrillic to the Latin alphabet, but I couldn't find 'My God', for example, so I just did my best. Thanks to the several readers who made comments and corrections on this story. Alas, as I can never leave well enough alone, I've made numerous changes since I received their editorial corrections, and have no doubt inserted new errors, for which I have only myself to blame!