County Mayo, Ireland…
The plans were in place to kill the old man. The details would work themselves out at the proper time. Until they did, Gavin would work to sharpen his eye and improve his aim, here in his private shooting range.
No one had used the secluded outbuilding for more than a century. Five years ago, Gavin had claimed the old pig house, telling the family he wanted the space for his personal gymnasium. No one had questioned him. No one had cared.
His position as an instructor at the local shooting club had allowed him to obtain whatever he’d needed for his illegal renovations without alerting the local authorities. He’d spent months transforming the long, narrow structure, toiling alone to tear out rotting stalls and troughs. He set up a generator outside and a heating unit inside. For noise abatement, he’d installed concrete blocks over rough rock walls, attached concrete slabs to the ceiling, and positioned foam panels everywhere. An advanced ventilation system, balanced lighting, and storage areas rounded out the conversion.
Gavin’s ambitious makeover had lessened the stink of the long-gone pigs, though when the weather was wet, like today, the stench seeped in and disgusted him. So did the echoing grunts and squeals of the pig ghosts.
But Gavin knew how to silence them.
On this rainy afternoon, he stood at the head of the lane that stretched the length of the pig house. He needed no fancy electronic trappings. No buttons moved hanging targets on ceiling tracks. No digital readouts told him the target’s distance. His eyes did the work, and they did it well.
The phantom grunts and squeals dissolved when he set his headphones over his ears. He took his semiautomatic pistol, a Heber .45, from the metal table behind him and thumbed the safety off. Halfway down the lane, he’d screwed a cardboard target to a rack. The target had five squares of photographs: two small squares at the bottom, two big squares in the center, and above them all, the largest square, the only one he’d named.
Homing in on the bottom squares, he repeated the mantra he drilled into his students during firearms training.
Stance.
He spread his feet and shifted his weight to find the right balance.
Breath.
Slow and steady, in and out.
Grip.
He raised the pistol in both hands.
Trigger pressure.
His headphones muffled the boom of the rounds he fired in rapid succession. His shots left holes in both bottom squares. Flakes of cardboard drifted downward. The old man’s nephews were gone.
Gavin inhaled the acrid smell of gunpowder. The ventilation system sucked up most of it. The remaining traces overpowered the reek of the pigs.
Pleased with his first pass, he eyed the middle row and began a new mantra.
With this loaded blunderbuss…
He raised the pistol.
The truth I will unfold…
Aimed.
To the Brave and the Faithful, Nothing is Difficult.
The bullets tore through the center squares. The old man’s son and daughter were gone. Gut tight, jaw clenched, he studied the remaining square.
The only square he’d named.
Your turn, King Brian.
Once more, Gavin raised the pistol and fired.
To the Brave and the Faithful, Nothing is Difficult.
Fired again.
Nothing is Difficult…
And again.
Nothing…
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