Her leg was bouncing up and down in the briefing, the only tell that the soldier was even paying attention, the only tell that she was anxious. Otherwise, she was examining her nails - her manicure needed a fill, the gap between her cuticles and the teal gel polish getting too big for liking. The heels tap tap tapped against the flooring as she idly picked at her cuticles, sighing as though she couldnât be bothered to be there. But really, she was hanging onto every word, and the others in the room had to know, or else sheâd be reprimanded. Or maybe they didnât care. It was hard to tell anymore. After all, this was hardly the military she was used to. Hell, this didnât even exist, whatever it was. Not technically, anyway.
She listened enough to get the details, and vague ones at that. Specifications were important when it came to the actual job, but that was all she needed. Take out the target. Done. Extract whatever. Done. But knowing names, knowing places made the job that much more difficult. Knowing the details made her physically sick and unable to perform. It was different when she was a Marine. This...this felt different. It was colder, it was much less forgiving. So much of the work felt unnecessary, like she was a missionary out for hire. But they promised it was for the greater good, promised it was to keep their country safe and running smoothly. That despite the bloodshed, this was good.
God bless America.
In theory, it was simple. Someone else was assigned to plant the explosives; she tuned that part out, as it didnât apply to her. When she heard the word sniper, the tapping off her foot slowed though did not stop completely. Theoretically, the job was easy. Shoot the target, set off the explosives. Pretend you didnât just kill hundreds or potentially thousands of people. Remind yourself that this is for your country, that this is good, that you are making the world a better place...
Except that became much harder when she heard the location: the Space Needle.
Finally, Sofia looked up, dark red lips parted as breath escaped her. She immediately felt cold and clammy, and she swallowed as she uncrossed her legs, the tapping finally stopping.
âThe Space Needle?â The accent came out more, much more pronounced now that she was spending more time at home around her family and not overseas. âSeattle?â
âYouâve never been?â The Commander somehow, someway, managed to crack a smile in her direction, and that was when the nausea settled in. âYes, Seattle.â
The room was quiet, and Sofia swore the whole room could hear her heart beating. No. No, no, no. This was not what she signed up for. This was not an attack on a foreign threat. This was not an extraction. This was...this was...
âThis is a terrorist attack,â she spoke finally. âIâm performing a terrorist attack. Here.â
âThatâs what it needs to appear to be, yes.â Sofia couldnât breathe. Couldnât move. âMake sure to make it a little messy. Fire off some shots. Canât be looking too military precise.â
At first, she said nothing. What could she say to that? Her mind was blank, and everything that came to mind was not appropriate to say to someone who could have her killed in the blink of an eye, or her siblings. She straightened herself slowly, re-crossing her legs. She smoothed down her skirt, tightening her fingers around the material to hide their shaking. She nodded once, then again as she finally found her voice:Â âYes, sir.â She felt so stupid, but what else was there to say? These were orders. She had no choice.
And two weeks later, that girl was gone. The too small skirt and heels were replaced with black jeans and a plain t-shirt, something for her to blend in. Her make-up was wiped clean, and those teal nails were cut short. Glasses replaced contacts as she stood before a sniper set up. The only thing remaining of the girl in that room two weeks prior were the shaking hands.
One minute. She had one minute left. She approached the rifle swiftly, without question, and she slowly lowered herself to it. One eye closed tightly, she used her scope to find her target. So simple, a trash can through a window. So obvious. So stupid. Her hands were sweating, so she removed them to wipe them clean on her pants. She felt sick, so so sick, but time was running out and she had no choice.
Make it messy.
Five. Four. Three.
â Padre, pĂdeme, porque he pecado.â She removed her scope from the final target, and began to fire. The screams that followed even reached her, high in the clouds, on a building too far to be suspicious just yet. On a building where security cameras had been disabled, staff paid off or sent home... She felt bile rising in the back of her throat, and after what felt like hours she moved back to the target, and the explosion reached her ears before she had even processed pulling the trigger.
She broke down the set-up as quickly as she could, hands shaking as she fought the urge to vomit. Not here. Not now. She didnât have time. Theyâd told her that there would be a car for her two minutes after her job was completed, and she had all those stairs....
She was heaving as she ran down them, trying to focus on breathing through her mouth. This had to be done. For whatever reason was above her pay grade, this had to be done. Sofia did not need to know why, she just had to do like the little soldier she was. She had to blindly accept her orders with the understand that this was necessary. That if she didnât do it, someone else would.
God bless America.Â
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