Hunted Hunter

In my line of work, it's unusual to find myself on the business end of a gun. Sure, there are a few exceptions to that rule. Okay, fine, there are a good deal of exceptions. What I mean is that it's unusual for me to be someone else's target. Don't get me wrong; I've made a lot of enemies over the years, but normally no one's stupid enough to come after me. A guy named Vinnie tried once; he was one of my boss' rival's top hitters. The operative word there, of course, is was. But still, every once in a blue moon, someone will get the idea that I should be dealt with. Normally, it's no big deal; I spot them tailing me, let them think I have no clue they're after me, then turn the tables when they try and take me down. However, there is one incident that stands out in my memory, probably because it was one of, if not the closest call I've ever had.

One of my favorite past times is hunting. Hunting deer, that is. My boss actually gives me most of deer season off because he knows that odds are I'll be out in the woods stalking prey. I've actually got quite a collection of trophies in my house; my pride and joy is a 295 pound buck that I bagged eight years ago. Followed him for three hours before I got close enough for a decent shot... but now I'm digressing, sorry.

I'd spotted a decent sized buck, maybe 180 to 200 lbs, and had been stalking it for about forty minutes when I decided I was in a good enough position to take a shot at it. I shouldered my Steyr Scout and drew a bead on the buck's head. I'd just thumbed the safety off and was preparing to fire when the tree branch above my head exploded off the trunk. The buck bolted into the underbrush as the sound of a rifle shot echoed through the forest. I threw myself to the ground, mad as hell at the idiot hunter who'd almost killed me, not to mention spoiled my stalk.

"Hey, watch were you're shooting!" I shouted, "You almost killed me!" Then a second gunshot rang out and a bullet slammed into the dirt next to my head. That's when I knew this was no armature deer hunter; whoever this guy was, he was a pro. And he was hunting me. I quickly crawled back behind the tree, putting its thick trunk between myself and the shooter, though I knew that if he had a powerful enough rifle, it wouldn't be all that much help.

I slowly leaned around the trunk and raised my rifle, scanning the treeline with my scope. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a quick flash - the reflection of the sun off of his scope - then a round ricocheted off of the tree, missing my face by centimeters. I leapt out from behind the tree, firing at the place I'd seen his scope flash. Dropping into a somersault, I worked my gun's bolt, loading a new .308 Winchester round into the chamber, as a quick series of shot's peppered the ground around my feet. As I dove behind a large boulder, I knew I was in even more trouble than I'd thought: the sniper was using a semi-automatic rifle, probably with a large-capacity magazine and high-magnification scope, whereas I was armed with a bolt-action rifle with four rounds left in the magazine and a 2.5x scope. And even if we'd had the exact same guns, I was still at a disadvantage: he knew exactly where I was while I only had a rough idea of his location. This was about as bad as things could get.

I leaned out from my cover for a second before two bullets caromed off the rock and drive me back behind it again, but not before I spotted the muzzle flashes in the treeline. Now I knew where he was, and the odds had been evened out a bit. I rose from behind the rock and fired at the sniper as I began running back towards the tree. I saw the barrel of his rifle swing wildly as he dodged my shot. Sliding behind the oak, I chambered another round.

Three shots left.

The sniper recovered and once again began peppering the tree with bullets. I swung out and fired again, running forward. towards the shooter.

Two shots left.

I dropped into a forward roll, landing in a crouch as the shooter fired again, missing me by inches. Now I was close enough to actually see the shooter. I fired again, my shot neatly clipping through the cluster of leaved over his head.

One shot left.

I desperately worked the bolt, cambering my last round as the shooter drew a bead on me. We brought our rifles up simultaneously, and an instant later a single gunshot echoed through the forest.

For what seemed like eternity, all was still. I watched in detached fascination as a scarlet patch slowly flowered in the center of the shooter's chest, then an agonizing moan escaped his lips and he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The spell broken, I quickly pulled a bullet from my ammo belt and loaded it into the Scout's chamber. The shooter rolled over and began to crawl towards his fallen weapon. Before he could touch the weapon, I closed the Scout' bolt, raised the rifle, and fired my last shot into the back of his head.

Slinging the empty Steyr over my shoulder, I wiped the sweat from my brow. A sharp pain lanced through my forehead, and I pulled my had away. It was streaked with blood from cuts caused by shrapnel from some of the ricochets. Ignoring the pain, I pulled my canteen from my belt and poured its contents over my face. Once the canteen was empty, I replaced it in its pouch, gathered up the dead man's rifle, and made my way out of the woods.