Almost a mile away.
Almost impossible.
But the Count was the best.
He was a machine.
And he didn't care about odds.
All he cared about was getting the job done.

The wind was a measured thing. As was the slope of the hill
and the number of grains in his shell.
Measured.
Measured as precisely as if a razor had shaved the numbers.
As precisely as he had shaved this morning.
A thousand details changed around him and he took it all in
with equal weight.
He took it all in as a chemist does in his lab. And just as
dispassionately.
Details killed.
But so did the count.
The Count was a machine. And details were his life.
But he knew them so well and planned so for each one that when
a detail changed, he just flowed into the change like a well
maintained action.

Three hours he had waited. Three hours of details and
dispassion.
Three hours of up-time.
A voice, maybe the Count's, complained that three hours was too
long. That too much could change in three hours.
But the Count was the best. He ignored the voice.

Finally, for a twinkling, the details formed a perfect image and
the Count knew the time had come.
Slowed breathing,
relaxed muscles,
perfect wind,
good cover,
and a clear shot.

When he walked back into the barracks, the Count had already
disappeared.
Around him were the congratulations, and the praise, and the
skipper with a 72. But the Count had disappeared. He left the
instant that the bullet hit. He left the instant his job was
done.
He could not face the downtime.
And he left just a kid, terrified of where he was and appalled at what
he had just done, alone to make it back home.
Wherever that happened to be this week.