Not a Religious Man
by Jason Ivey

Boy it's hot! There isn't much wind. Suns up but barely. And it's already so hot! Cuba, what can ya say?
I gotta be on this rooftop till the job is finished. A deal's a deal, the contract was accepted. So it's hot.
I like to think I'm a professional. It doesn't matter. Everything up to this point has been training for this day. I have to come through; my reputation and livelihood depend on my actions today. Time to get to work.
I look down at my right hand, which is gripping an aluminum briefcase, perhaps too tightly. I quickly scan the rooftops around me. Empty. Good. I set the briefcase on the crushed gravel rooftop and undo the clasps with hands that are trembling ever so slightly. Shit. Calm down. I lift the lid of the case open and stare down at the tool of my trade. It's very beautiful. Italian art. Those damn wops know how to mix business and pleasure. Three pieces of art to make one Shakespearean tragedy. I reach out to caress the weapon with hands that are steady as a rock.

That's the way I am, pre game jitters. I lift the combination receiver/stock out of the case and snap the stock out to its firing position. I set that carefully on the rooftop and retrieve the barrel from the case. I pick up the stock combo and screw the barrel into it, just till its snug. Don't want to over tighten the barrel in case I gotta leave fast. Breakdowns gotta be quick! Besides its only one shot. I got a seven second window. I can do it. 1,123 yards exactly, maybe five guys in the world can make this shot. I reach down and pick up the scope ever so softly. Don't wanna drop this. I slide it into place and hear the snick as it locks home. My grandfather's scope. He used it his entire career. My father, now me. Killin's in my blood.

I crawl to the edge of the roof and peak through the scope. That's a narrow courtyard. Seven seconds is what it takes him to cross the courtyard. So seven seconds is what I got. I make myself comfortable and settle in for the wait. It shouldn't be long he is due at the policia station in ten minutes to get his parade escort.
There's movement. The car has been brought around. The chauffeur is out and around the front of the car. And here he comes preceded by three bodyguards and one bringing up the rear.
Deep breath.
And exhale slowly.

Steady the hand, the head, and the heart.
Squeeze, don't pull small recoil, smell of gunpowder, it is done!
I crawl away from the edge of the roof and push the locking pin that holds the scope in place. It slides into my hand and I put it in the case. Unscrew the barrel and its next in the case. Finally the receiver/stock combo, fold n stow. I close the brief case and secure the clasps stand up and leave.
I don't think I will make the papal parade through Havana today. But the funeral procession I wouldn't miss for the world.