It was a righteous kill, all the sweeter because he had ended Tulio’s life at the very moment the man felt he was back on top again. “Your expensive lawyers can keep you out of jail, but they can’t keep you out of my sights,” he muttered, slipping effortlessly into his hypervigilant combat mode, surveying the street ahead for the cop cars certain to be speeding to the murder scene. He grinned as he heard the sirens, imagining medics working on Tulio before finally conceding that it was hopeless.

Although vaguely aware that Tulio had been a human being, buffeted by the same emotions propelling us all, the sniper saw him only as a symbol of the greed and corruption he believed were destroying America. Inured to random, senseless death by his time in Afghanistan, he had deliberately and successfully hardened himself against even a hint of empathy for those his bullets had torn apart. He was a killing machine, ever in need of a target and a rationale for destroying it.

Like many war veterans, the sniper understood and accepted that he would be forever estranged from “civilians,” an all-purpose definition that for him covered not just those without uniforms but everyone living a “normal” life, putting in their eight at the office, mowing their lawns, coaching Little League games and aspiring to little more than the warmth of family and friends. Born and raised in a tiny Kentucky town in the weary heart of Appalachia, he had learned to shoot to supplement his family’s Food Stamp diet. Turkey, deer, squirrels, possums, rabbits and sometimes even horses made their way to the family dinner table, along with cheap wine and sugar-laden sodas. His alcoholic father had encouraged his hunting by knocking his son around if he returned to their crude cabin empty-handed.

As meth, oxycodone and fentanyl decimated his contemporaries, the sniper was somehow able to hold himself clear of the plague before encountering an Army recruiter whose practiced spiel penetrated his 18-year-old’s mind and steered him first to basic training at Georgia’s Fort Benning and then to Army sniper school. Long hours at the shooting range enhanced his already formidable marksmanship skills, and instructors who recognized his unexpected intelligence and raw talent also taught him how to find and stalk a target, from tropical jungles to icy tundra, estimate the target’s range and factor in considerations such as wind and weather conditions, air density, humidity levels, high altitude versus low and much more

The sniper also acquired the fine points of concealment and camouflage, emerging from his training as a finely honed dispenser of death. His first few kills included a nine-year-old boy strapped into a suicide bomb vest by the Taliban and sent walking towards his platoon. While other soldiers agonized over the mayhem they caused, he reduced horrific events to the simple equation of kill or be killed and slept soundly – at first.

Like countless other soldiers, the sniper brought the war home with him and was unable to function in an unstructured environment. Embittered by encounters with harried Veterans Administration doctors and arrested twice after barroom scuffles, he was an easy mark for a man, also an Afghan vet, who seemed to understand what he was going through. The man sketched a dark portrait of a deeply corrupt America run by and for the rich, many of them Jews, who were intent on replacing white Americans with immigrants and “mud races”.  He told the lonely soldier he would be welcomed by thousands like him who were organizing and training for the day when they would rise up and finally bring the elite to justice. His words resonated with the sniper, who was energized by the idea of using his murderous skills to advance what he now saw as a higher purpose.

One day, satisfied that his charge had truly absorbed and integrated the scenario he had laid out, his mentor took him to a nondescript motel, checked them in, made a call and handed his cell phone over.

“You have proved yourself,” the voice on phone said. “We are pleased, and you have earned a reward. Your contact will give you $5,000 in cash when we are through today. You are free to take it and walk away, or you can join us in the greatest mission of your life. We are going to take back America from those who would pollute its blood and destroy it. We will give you the future targets and support you financially as our campaign goes forward to the glorious day when true patriots will rule America. The choice is yours. If you accept, you will take the code name “Mercury” and assemble a band of believers to be called “Final Justice.” That is all for now.”

The man terminated the call. Mercury handed the phone back to his mentor and said “I’m in.” He would never know that had he made a different decision he would have died in that motel room.