The Armourer

The first of a small series of Sniper thrillers I am developing.

The workshop

The armourer’s workshop was nothing like the seedy backroom operation she had expected it to be. Practical concrete flooring met retro wood panelled walls on all sides. The room measured ten feet by ten feet and was divided into three separate sections. It was lit only by a wall mounted compact fluorescent lamp, mounted flush with the ceiling. To the left of the main entrance was a wooden workbench fitted with lathes and laden with cutting tools, blow torches, rubber mallets and wrenches, all arranged neatly. The surface of the bench was covered in scars, stark remembrances of weapons that had once been reworked on it.

It reminded her of her father’s Gladiator workbench, an ancient relic he had managed to buy at an auction and which he had refurbished himself. The intervening years had clouded her memory, but she could still remember the peculiar smell of the bench — the combination of motor oil and paint thinner. Her father was a mechanic, who on the days he managed to remain sober, was a whiz with engines of any sort. At least until the electronics revolution came along and made engines too complex for him.

To her right was a wall mounted backlit steel cage housing all sorts of weapons. The lower half of the cage was chock full of assault rifles, primarily AK 103s and FN SCARs. The upper half was a pistol junkie’s dream, crammed with Glocks, Sig Sauer P226s and H&K USPs. All these dangerous monsters rested silently on their steel mounts, utterly powerless without their ammunition.A quarter of the space in the lower half of the cage was devoted to bolt action sniper rifles. She noticed an old Mosin Nagant 1891 model fitted with a PEM twin ring mounted telescopic sight. A quick flicker of satisfaction flashed across her eyes. She ran her fingers over the stock of the sniper rifle almost lasciviously, caressing its sleek curves.

The Armourer

“You like it, huh?”, a thin, reedy voice emanated from the opposite corner of the workshop. She had scoped out the blood-red mahogany table the moment she entered the room. It was covered with green baize cloth of the sort generally used to cover pool tables. Its surface was bare except for a nondescript Panasonic Toughbook and a mobile phone. At the other end of the table sat the armourer. His face looked exactly like in the photo. Thin, almost ascetic. A mop of black hair framed the domed forehead which sloped down to a pair of deep-set eyes. His eyes were jet black and had a bright, cheerful quality to them which lend an atmosphere of redeeming joy to the rest of his surroundings. His nose was straight and elegant. A rather good looking man, she thought to herself, save for the lips, which were thin and cruel.

“It’s not bad,” she countered, still eyeing the Mosin Nagant. “May I?”.

“Be my guest,” he offered. She picked up the rifle, smoothly slid back the bolt and checked out the empty chamber. “I like your taste,” he continued. “These days, the kids go for the fancier stuff, all knobs and buttons and digital readouts. But a Mosin, it tests your abilities as a shooter. There are no bells and whistles. It’s just you, a bullet, and the rifle. Pure class.” She didn’t reply immediately. The lighting in the workshop was bad, and the armourer was seated in the darkest area, making it hard to see him.

“The fancier stuff is often unreliable. And you’re right, a Mosin is a classic. Hard to get a hold of these days. I heard only you stocked one around these parts. How much do you expect for this?” she asked. “Well, it’s hard to say,” he chuckled. “A rare Mosin Nagant? It’s a collector’s edition. I wouldn’t let go of it for anything south of 10 grand”. She fought back the urge to negotiate, and simply nodded. “Is your payment account still the same?” she asked. “Same as ever,” came the reply. She busied herself with her phone, and a couple of minutes and several taps later, put it away, satisfied. But she kept her hand in her pocket. There followed a moment of silence, heavy with the anticipation of money. It was broken by a ping on the mobile phone kept on the table. The armourer’s thin, almost skeletal hand reached out to the phone, lifted it close to his face and unlocked it to check the confirmation message. The feeble white light from the screen illuminated his face for just three seconds as he read the message. Confused, he raised his eyes back to the sniper questioningly.

The message on his phone’s screen read simply, ‘Memento Mori.’

Memento Mori

Three seconds.

That was all it took.

The sniper’s hand came out of her pocket in one swift motion, a 7.62 x 54r round nestled between her fingers. She pushed the round directly into the chamber and rammed home the bolt on the upward swing. There was no need to sight through the scope at this distance, so she simply screwed her left eye shut and sighted down the barrel with her right eye. The pull on the trigger was smooth, and the heavy grained hunting round didn’t lose any height in its short flight path. The armourer’s eyes still had the questioning expression in them as the rest of his body slowly accepted the fact that he was dead, and proceeded to slide down to the ground in an orderly fashion.

The sniper bent down to collect the cartridge, wiped down the Mosin Nagant and put it back carefully in its place. She took one last, longing look at it, turned around, and left the workshop. The armourer would arm no more war criminals.