BIA Ch. 134

If that was the reason, then the fuss made sense. The plan had originally been to snipe Chester and his men as they came out after the service.

“They’re all, they’re all going inside the church.”

“Are they carrying guns?”

“Yes. Pistols and… there are two or three guys carrying shotguns.”

It seemed like the plan was to start shooting as soon as they entered the church. If so, shotguns could be a good choice. Since small pellets scatter upon firing, you could hit a few shots even with a rough aim at close range. If you weren’t confident in your aim, shooting indiscriminately was also an option.

“Ah, people are rushing out all at once! It looks like they’re fleeing.”

Mickey exclaimed urgently. It seemed to have started.

The time for questions had passed.

Quickly, quickly, come out.

Isaiah took a short, deep breath, careful not to tense his grip. He repeatedly confirmed his shoulder was at the right height by the feel of the cheek piece against his face, and checked once more that the safety was off by the tension of the trigger under his fingertip.

All preparations were perfect. Isaiah held his breath and stared at the crosshairs in the scope beyond the front sight.

Soon, his focus blurred, everything within the circle vanished from view, and only the crosshairs remained sharp. He couldn’t hear anything. Not the sound of his own heart, which had been pounding like crazy moments ago, nor Mickey’s chattering voice beside him—nothing.

Just then, the door opened and someone came out. It was one of Chester’s men. He didn’t know the name. Only the face. And that he was shorter than Chester. How many vertical marks on the reticle differed, how much to compensate for crosswind drift for every 1 mil (0.0573°) decrease. Instinct, more accurate than any calculator, determined the muzzle’s direction first.

— Swoosh!

A bullet fired from the suppressed rifle. Almost simultaneously, the figure in the lens collapsed. Someone else emerging from the door startled violently and tried to turn back. He didn’t even know this guy’s face. But it didn’t matter. Isaiah fired a bullet into the back of the retreating man’s head. The dark head exploded on the spot. Two men following behind, fleeing, screamed as they were showered in brains and blood, clueless as to what happened.

— Thwip, Swoosh.

Isaiah pulled the trigger without hesitation. He swore he had never felt exhilaration from the act of killing, but the tension felt at his fingertip when pulling the trigger was always thrilling. There was a pleasure provided by that unique, heavy elasticity. The weight embodying the seamless process: the sear moving, the hammer releasing to strike the firing pin.

The firing pin, struck by the hammer, pierces the primer of the live round in the chamber. The lock time1) of the M24A2 is less than 4/1000ths of a second. The time it took for the primer to ignite, generate hot gas, and propel the bullet out of the muzzle was even shorter. And as the fired bullet shattered the target’s skull and burrowed deep into the cerebrum, Isaiah’s hand was already pulling the next trigger.

He fired a total of four shots in less than two seconds. This was the result of his hands not being fully warmed up yet, and a brief hesitation because he couldn’t clearly recognize the target’s face.

But the hesitation didn’t last long. It was obvious that the ones fleeing now had to be Chester’s men. Isaiah believed this without any basis.

Once convinced, his movements became unhesitating. Isaiah fired the remaining six shots in three seconds. All hits.

“Magazine.”

He said, ejecting the empty magazine and tossing it to the ground. Mickey quickly pulled a new one from the caddy bag and handed it over. Meanwhile, Harold, who had approached, picked up Mickey’s scope and looked towards the church, speaking.

“What the— Aren’t those Kalisz guys?”

He muttered, aghast, looking at the bodies strewn across the church parking lot.

“You, what in the world is this…”

“Move. You’re in the way.”

Isaiah raised the rifle with the new magazine loaded and took his sniping stance. Harold flinched and quickly backed away. Harold, who had even thrown down the scope and retreated for fear of being shot, perhaps belatedly realizing how pathetic he looked, needlessly yelled at Mickey.

“Hey, Maxim! Does upper management—!”

“Of course, they know.”

Mickey cut Harold off mid-sentence.

“Huh.”

Harold was speechless, his mouth just hanging open. Mickey pushed Harold aside, picked up the empty magazine lying at his feet, and started reloading it with bullets. In the meantime, Isaiah fired six more shots. Even then, the situation had entered a forced lull only because no one else was rushing out the side door.

“Um, just asking to be sure… You are only shooting Chester’s crew right now, right?”

Mickey asked cautiously while loading bullets into the magazine. When Isaiah had killed six or seven men, Mickey had watched with fascination, but now that the count exceeded ten and Isaiah was still killing everyone emerging from the side door indiscriminately without even looking at their faces, he seemed to be getting uneasy.

“Don’t know.”

“What?”

Mickey’s hand, loading the magazine, paused.

“You don’t… know?”

“Yeah. But they probably are.”

Isaiah said indifferently.

If it was Bran who lured Martino’s members into the chapel, there could only be one reason. He must have known we were waiting with guns. He surely would have told his men to leave as late as possible if they didn’t want to die.

“You think so…?”

Mickey sounded uncertain. His expression suggested doubt that Bran could have anticipated that far.

“Bran could.”

He’s exceptionally smart. Always knew how to think one step ahead of others. He probably predicted this would happen the moment I showed up at the church yesterday. That’s likely why he even had surveillance put on the airport.

“And even if that’s not the reason, the ones fleeing now are highly likely to be Chester’s men.”

Isaiah stated firmly.

“Really? Is there any basis for…”

“Chester’s men are like Chester—disloyal. Conversely, Bran’s men are like Bran. They wouldn’t just abandon their boss and flee during a firefight.”

“What? What kind of nonsense is that?”

Mickey looked incredulous.

“Mafia guys are all the same. They’re just thugs and criminals, why would Bran’s men be any different?”

“Is that so.”

“Yes, it is!”

Mickey was exasperated, thinking, ‘Just how crazy are you about Bran?’

“If that’s the case, well, can’t be helped.”

Isaiah said calmly.

“Anyway, even if they are Bran’s men. If they’re the type to abandon their boss and flee alone in a situation like this, it’s fine if they die, isn’t it?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean it’s a crime punishable by death…”

Mickey muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, the side door of the chapel shook violently, then burst outwards as if kicked from inside. Simultaneously, Kalisz members in black suits poured out. Seeing them all bloodied, stumbling and crawling out, tumbling this way and that, gave a rough idea of what was happening inside.

Mixed among the members spilling out in a tangled mass were not only Chester’s men but also Bran’s. Both sides were covered in blood, guns in hand. Without distinction of who started first, shots erupted simultaneously from all directions. From a distance, it looked just like fireworks. The constant popping sounds of something exploding were exactly like those of fireworks too.

At first, with so many people tangled together, it was impossible to tell who was who, but fortunately, the sides quickly became clear. Those trying to escape in cars were Chester’s men, and those chasing them were Bran’s.

Isaiah immediately readjusted his rifle and moved the muzzle sideways. He corrected the focus manually with the fine-tuning dial even before the auto-correction function could activate, and began shooting the ones fleeing further away first. The men, running frantically towards the cars, dropped one after another. Using the recoil against his shoulder from each shot as momentum, he wrapped his finger around the trigger and pulled again.

— Swoosh!

One man clutched his chest and tumbled down. Unluckily, it seemed he was hit in the body, not the head. Another man running a few steps behind placed both hands on the fallen man’s chest and started pumping frantically. Then, he suddenly lifted his head and began looking around. He seemed to be searching for someone. Isaiah centered the man’s head in the crosshairs. As the muzzle shifted downwards, the focus momentarily wavered before being instantly corrected by the auto-adjustment feature. In that instant, his eyes met the man’s, whose head had been darting around.

It was Manny.