Flash Fiction ~ Foggy Trail

Time for another photo flash. Cool image. Here is the resulting story…

I decided to do another snippet with Ethan, from a few flashes ago. You can’t read that here… They aren’t really connected but…

Fog. Thick, with an unearthly glow. Curling through the trees, dampening the leaves as it swallowed the forest. Ethan hated this part. Waiting. Watching. Wondering if the next silhouette would be his mark.

Patience had never been his virtue. But he endured. Was actually damn good at it, despite the way it gnawed at his gut. Left him questioning his motivation at times. Wondering if there would be anything left of the idealistic man he’d once been. If he even wanted there to be.

Lying in wait for days on end. Barely moving. Hell, barely breathing. Just his eye pinned to the scope—body hidden within the foliage. It gave him too much time to think. About his life. His future.

Her.

That’s where all his thoughts went. Anna Cartwright. The woman destined to be his undoing. Or maybe his salvation. It seemed to be a race as to whether she’d save his ass or crucify it. Rebuild him or just bury his ashes in the damn ground. In the same spot she’d resurrected his heart.

Which was crazy. Snipers didn’t have hearts. Not if they were good at their job. Could make the hard choices—take the hits that would shred lesser men. Destroy their souls. And Ethan was damn good at his job.

So, waking up and realizing the cold, dark void he’d kept caged inside his chest was gone—replaced with something so damn fragile it threatened to bleed out at the slightest look, touch, fuck smell from her?

Yeah, that fucked with him. On so many levels he’d given up trying to puzzle it out. Just accepted that Anna was beyond his training, beyond the scope of his control, and moved on. Prayed she didn’t leave him broken. A shell of the formidable warrior he’d once been.

Movement. Nothing more than a swirl of fog. A slight disturbance within the ghostly glow. Nothing concrete, more like a suggestion of a presence. Like a shadow moving in the dark, just a breath lighter than the actual blackness of night. Barely discernible.

But Ethan saw it. Felt it. The slight prickle along his nape. The tensing in his gut. Signs most would attribute to three days rooted in the same four-foot hole. From fatigue. Stress.

He didn’t. Instead, he adjusted his lens. Checked his measurements. Wind. Elevation. Humidity. Distance. Slowed his breathing. Quieted his mind. Everything focused on the apex of the hill. On the singular moment he’d get when his prey emerged from the fog. One breath to make his decision—fire or not. After that, it would be too late. Three days with nothing to show but his impression in the ground.

A dim form. Slowly taking on shape—head, shoulders, arms.

The man’s body rising up out of the fog as he crested the hill. There was a moment of eerie silence—not even the beat of Ethan’s heart registering inside his head, while he searched the man’s features—identified him.

Then, the soft whoosh of the bullet. The thump of the guy hitting the dirt.

Mission complete.