Target Practice with a Professional

What would it be like to do something with someone who is either dead or otherwise unreachable? Try to figure out who this professional is.

 

I took to the range,

A mid autumn day.

Dull light from overcast sky.

I set my rifle on the bags,

Carefully sighting in the old iron crosshair.

Each round,

Slender and light-grained

Slid into place.

I eased the bolt forward

To a clicked lock.

“Good day for sending some down range.”

To my left sat another man

I had not noticed before.

A marksman.

With and old Italian rifle,

A carcano, I think.

“It is,” I replied.

I returned my gaze to the paper target ahead.

“I know you,” I said.

“I imagine you do.”

Shot.

The crack echoed back to us.

Shot.

My round hit the bottom left corner.

“I’d like to learn how to hit my mark better.”

“Would you?” he asked.

He showed me

How to watch the wind,

How it plays with dust.

How to see the path of the bullet,

Though it travels faster than sound,

You can track it to the target.

He taught me how to hold steady my breath,

And ignore the world

Around me.

Shot.

Dead center on the target, a head shot.

“Thank you Mister-”

“Hidell.  But please, call me Alek.”

He explained that he wasn’t always such a marksman,

I didn’t believe him.  I’d known his work in Dallas.

“Remember to keep your eye on the target,” he said.

Shot.

Shot.  Shot.

Every round hit inside that tiny circle.

“Tell me one thing, Alek.  Why did you-”

A blue light caught the corner of my eye.

Two police officers approached from my right flank.

“Watch out,” I heard.

I turned to Alek

Only to find an empty bench.