He sat almost motionless between two mossy boulders, high in the valley.
As he gently puffed on his pipe, he thought of the many tourists that he had dispatched from that very spot.
It was a pleasant spot; well sheltered from the breeze that rustled through the pines above his head, yet affording a clear view of the road below. The wood pigeons called to each other from the tree tops and the sun shone. He felt at peace with the world.
It had all started the previous week, when he had received a rather cryptic message from his friend Cranky at the Embassy of Canukastan. Cranky had received a dispatch from the Prime Minister of Canada that made reference to ‘Men with Pens’. Cranky made some discreet enquiries through diplomatic, and some not so diplomatic channels and had unearthed a plot to assassinate Grandad.
He wasn’t worried that he was on a ‘hit list’. This had happened before. They were usually amateurish attempts that were no more a threat than an irritating fly. They had easily been swatted. He knew this one was different though. These Men with Pens were professionals. Every week they dispatched some innocent blogger, without turning a hair, and actually had the audacity to brag about it.
But this week, they had gone to ground. They had tried to lay a false trail, but he wasn’t fooled. He knew they were coming. They were callous and cold blooded in their methods, but he knew they were careless. This would be easy.
In the distance, he heard the sound of a car approaching the village through the valley. He knew they would come this way. The main road would have been too obvious. Put yourself in the mind of your enemy he had thought, and once again, it had worked.
He stretched out prone on his stomach, one leg bent for stability. He peered though the sights of his Barrett M-107, and as the car rounded the bend and came into sight, he lined the cross-hairs on the drivers side, and gently squeezed the trigger.
The echo of the shot rolled through the valley as the car swerved violently and veered off the road into the deep rocky cut where the river flowed. He knew from experience that there would be no survivors.
Grandad sighed. He took no pleasure from his action. It wasn’t as if they were idiotic tourists who deserved to be culled. But he took satisfaction from knowing that the blogging world was now safe.
He collected his equipment and started the walk back to the village. Spanner was not going to be pleased at having to get the tow-truck out to haul yet another wreck out of the river.