The Last Stand

It was another mild evening in Los Angeles as temperatures started to drop below 70. The air was cool with a slight breeze, and it was nearing dusk as the time approached 6:00PM. All seemed entirely peaceful, except on the rooftop of one of L.A.'s finest hotels; the Westin Bonaventure.

The golden setting sun reflected off of the hotels' chrome circular frame as it started to dip behind the horizon. No one would have known anything out of the ordinary unless they had looked at the five star hotel from above.

The scene depicted utter chaos. Bodies lay askew in awkward positions, and puddles of blood pooled around them. Most of the men had been dressed in black, however there were several that obviously had government issued uniforms. Everyone was dead, except for one: a boy.

His built frame was crouched on the ground as he set up a large weapon with a scope and a stand. To look at the boy upon first glance, you would guess for him to be around 18. But if you looked twice, you would realize he was in fact much younger. In fact, at this moment, the boy looked to be no older than 15.

He was shaking so badly he could hardly set up the stand for the gun. His sweaty palms kept slipping whenever he tried to secure the weapon onto the ledge of the roof. His eyes were extremely wide, and all of the blood had completely drained from his face to leave the skin pigment a ghostly white.

It had seemed so simple: provide back-up for the special ops team as they took out the several terrorists that would be guarding the warhead.

That is, of course, even if it WAS a warhead. these missions were never briefed to a big extent. It was just get in, shoot, disarm, get out.

Of course, as they had made their way to the top of the Westin's stairwell they realized far too late it had been a trick. They had at least 12 men in black already waiting for them, so it was quite obvious they had been set up. The team was far more skilled than the idiots dressed in black, but the odds were unbeatable. It was a miracle that the boy was still alive.

There had, in fact, been some sort of bomb on the roof top of the Westin, but it was a fake. It wasn't until after all of the members from the special ops team were dead that it had come in over special ops recruit Johnson's radio laying next to his shot up body that the bomb was actually on top of the Wilshire Grand, a hotel further down St. Figueroa street. The government was currently sending another team over to the Wilshire to disarm the bomb (or warhead, no one really knew) before it was too late. But the boy knew all too well that it was far too late for any sort of backup plan.

"Damn!"

The boy cursed as his sweaty (now sticky with blood) hands slipped yet again on the weapon. It was an OPSINC Suppressor, one of the highest powered sniper rifles available to the U.S., and any other country for that matter. But this one hadn't even belonged to any of the boys' teammates, it had been one of the terrorists'. He couldn't help but admire its' power and accuracy. After all, he had already taken out the four men on top of the Wilshire. It was an incredibly long shot, at least a quarter of a mile, but with the Suppressor it seemed like shooting a barn door from a mere 100 feet away.

But right now he was looking for something he knew was practically impossible to find, and he wasn't sure if it was even on the roof. He was shaking with fear as he placed the Suppressor atop the ledge of the Westin's roof, and aimed it once again towards the Wilshire.

He quickly scanned over the bodies of the men he had already killed, just to be sure they were dead. Then he started scanning for something he had no idea if he could find, and wasn't even sure if his plan would work even if he did find it.

He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to calm down. Slowly, his hands stopped shaking and the feeling came that he was very familiar with. His father had described it once as hyper-awareness, complete and total knowledge of what was happening around you. The feeling was fueled by bursts of adrenaline and was a basic survival instinct.

The boy could hear everything around him, the cars from highway 110, the faint music playing from a club down below, and the sound of a jet as it passed overhead.

Then, at last, he found it. A short gust of wind a quarter of a mile away had just barely removed a piece of tarp that had been covering the panel. He read the neon red numbers to himself out loud:

"3:12"

Fuck. It was even worse than he thought, and the tarp settled back down on top of the panel. The neon red numbers were now barely visible, and just left a ghastly shadow of red on the gray tarp that covered them.

The Suppressor only had 1 shot left in its' 5 round, single stack MAG-TECH magazine. The 24-inch barrel was covered in blood from the previous owner of the weapon, and it dripped slowly onto the pavement as the boy waited and prayed for another gust of wind to blow the tarp completely off.

So much pressure. An incredible amount of pressure, the boys' nerves were at an all time peak as his heart beat increased as the time passed. What would happen even if it did work? Even if he did get the shot which was against all odds, everything would go back to normal. All of these special ops missions have and always will be top secret, so no one ever finds out. Even if he saved all of downtown L.A., he still wouldn't be a hero. He would fly back to Washington and await the next mission.

He looked around at his dead teammates. They were all much older, much more skilled, yet for some reason HE was the one that was still alive. He hadn't really known any of them, that was part of the rules. You weren't allowed to even know each others' real names.

A movement in the corner of his eye caught the boys' attention. He quickly swung the Suppressor back over to look at the panel covered by the tarp. The tarp was gone!! A gust of wind had blown it completely off, now exposing most of the control panel and part of the bomb or warhead itself. And still no sign of the other special ops team.

He aimed the Suppressor directly at the neon red LED lights that read how much time he had left of his life. This also applied to the thousands of others that were enjoying this fine night in downtown L.A., totally oblivious to what was happening several hundred feet above them.

"1:09"

So it all came down to this. The boy started breathing heavily again when he realized the fate of one of the biggest city's in the world lied in his hands. Literally. If he didn't make the shot, he would be totally screwed. And even if he DID make the shot, God knows if it would stop the countdown or not.

The boy pulled out his Browning High Power Mk. 3 pistol and placed it against his skull that was now completely soaked in sweat. He could do it. He could pull the trigger now, there would be no more pressure, and it would all end. No more crazy weekend missions, no more crazy life. He wished his Dad had never gotten him into it in the first place. Besides, he was about to die in what, one minute? This way he would at least feel like he had some sort of control over his own death.

But no. He Threw the gun at one of the dead terrorists in anger, slowly coming to a sad realization that he had to do this. There was no easy way out. He checked the neon red numbers one more time:

"0:37"

It was definitely enough time. He could take the shot, and even possibly use one of the emergency parachutes the terrorists had to jump off the building and escape the blast from the bomb if he missed the shot. But if it was a warhead, there would be no escaping...

"0:30"

This was it. he aimed the Suppressor as carefully as he could. But this was a near impossible shot, he would have to use the entire 30 seconds to be sure the shot was perfect. He could do it.

"0:25"

The numbers seemed to go by slowly now, each one passing by as another instantly appeared to take its' place. The boy chuckled to himself as he thought of the clock sound from the TV hit series 24 for each second that ticked by.

bip, beep, bip, beep....

"0:20"

It was much darker now than when he had first killed the 4 men that had once been guarding the red neon lights. But now they were dead. And the darkness made the shot even more difficult, since this model of Suppressor was not equipped with the latest night vision.

bip, beep

"0:16"

Now the numbers seemed to be picking up speed, along with the boys' heart rate. Faster and faster, ticking away. A song came into the boys' head that he had heard the previous summer back in Washington; Jet Black New Year. The song counted down the last 10 seconds to the new year, one by one. He wasn't a fan of hardcore music, but this one had grabbed his attention. The song itself was great, but the band, Thursday, was a piece of shit. Yet the lyrics echoed in the back of his head as the neon red lights reached 10 seconds.

"0:10"

10 seconds left until midnight....

"0:09"

9 chances to drown ourselves in black hair dye...

"0:08"

eight faces turned away from the shock....

The Suppressor was set now. The seconds were going by faster than ever, and the boy knew he could take the shot now but the tension kept building. He loved the feel of the adrenaline rushing through his veins, and his heart was beating so fast it felt like it was going to explode.

"0:07"

seven windows and

"0:06"

six of them were locked....

"0:05"

five stories falling...

This was it. The tension and pressure were incredible!! He quickly wiped the sweat out of his eyes and gritted his teeth as his fingers began to clench the hand crafted grips on the Suppressor.

"0:04"

forever, and ever....

"0:03"

three cheers to the mirror

"0:02"

now there are two of us...

The boy smiled as he muttered the last of the lyrics under his breath and pulled the trigger:

"0:01"

can we have one last dance.