from their flesh for days afterwards). The man slumped forward until his chest fell between his knees and, thereby unbalanced, his body rolled forward off the chair and to the ground. His comrade, yet another general, swivelled his head at the sudden commotion, experienced a moment’s worth of complete horror to see his colleague without a head, before the third bullet hit him between the eyes, dead centre above the line of his nose. The fifty-calibre projectile ploughed straight through skull bone and brain matter, exiting with horrendous gushers of blood, brain, and bone fragments. Both bullets slammed into the thin partition walls, passed through the next two offices and, eventually, their momentum sufficiently impeded, exploded in a shower of zirconium sparks that immediately started hungry fires.
Kim found that he was on the floor. People were rushing around him, jostling him, treading on his hands. He clambered upright. The Chief of the General Staff collided with him.
The man flung him aside. “Get out of the way, you fool!”
The fourth bullet struck the general on the right side of his face, dug its way through the flesh and bone and teeth enamel, ploughing through the rear of the throat and into the bone of his shoulder, atomizing it into thin pink mist on the exit. His knees locked, even against the sudden and awful collapse of his weight, and so instead of tumbling he pivoted and was almost lowered downwards, dropping into a chair as if it was his favourite armchair at the end of a difficult day.
The bullets flew with delayed supersonic bangs that rang out only as the audience was beginning to realise what was happening to them.
The fifth shot was already on its way by then.
It struck a general who had been sitting in the first row, also in the head.
The result was identical.
The conference room erupted in panic––pure pandemonium––but there was nowhere for any of them to go. Every seat had been filled and as the attendees tried to make for the passages at the end of the rows they tripped over the chairs and each other. A scrum developed at the door. Kim dropped to the ground and wrapped his arms over his head. There was nothing he could do until the Englishman grew tired of his sport, shooting fish in a barrel.
----
18.
SOMEONE HAD overturned the table with the urns of coffee and tea. Milton watched through the scope as his fifth and final target sheltered behind it. He fired. An inch of plywood was like a skein of tissue to a fifty-calibre bullet travelling at 27,000 feet per second. Another huge bloom of blood splashed out onto the beige-coloured wall.
Milton stopped shooting.
His ears were ringing.
“Is it done?” Su-Yung said.
The next sound he heard, unmistakeably, even at this distance, was the muffled sound of screaming.
“It’s done.”
The unfinished room was full of the smell of burnt powder. Milton pushed himself backward on his toes and his forearms, moving away from the window. He swept the six spent shell cases into a pile. He scooped them into his hands and dropped them into his pocket. They were hot to the touch.
“How many?”
“Five,” Milton said.
“But you only shot six times. You hit five?”
Milton nodded.
“Extraordinary.”
Milton indicated the rifle. “I just point and shoot,” he said.
“That is a painful lesson for them to learn. And in their own building.”
Milton said nothing.
“We must go,” Su-Yung said. “They will close down the area. We must not be here when that happens. Your cover will not stand up to scrutiny.”
Milton came to his knees and stood up. He closed the plastic sheeting again, feeding the ties through the corresponding eyelets and tightening them. There was no sign that he had ever even been here. He wrapped the rifle in the blanket again and they made their way back down the stairwell. The garage was still deserted, gloomy and silent, although the sound of sirens was audible from outside. Su-Yung went to the van
Kim found that he was on the floor. People were rushing around him, jostling him, treading on his hands. He clambered upright. The Chief of the General Staff collided with him.
The man flung him aside. “Get out of the way, you fool!”
The fourth bullet struck the general on the right side of his face, dug its way through the flesh and bone and teeth enamel, ploughing through the rear of the throat and into the bone of his shoulder, atomizing it into thin pink mist on the exit. His knees locked, even against the sudden and awful collapse of his weight, and so instead of tumbling he pivoted and was almost lowered downwards, dropping into a chair as if it was his favourite armchair at the end of a difficult day.
The bullets flew with delayed supersonic bangs that rang out only as the audience was beginning to realise what was happening to them.
The fifth shot was already on its way by then.
It struck a general who had been sitting in the first row, also in the head.
The result was identical.
The conference room erupted in panic––pure pandemonium––but there was nowhere for any of them to go. Every seat had been filled and as the attendees tried to make for the passages at the end of the rows they tripped over the chairs and each other. A scrum developed at the door. Kim dropped to the ground and wrapped his arms over his head. There was nothing he could do until the Englishman grew tired of his sport, shooting fish in a barrel.
----
18.
SOMEONE HAD overturned the table with the urns of coffee and tea. Milton watched through the scope as his fifth and final target sheltered behind it. He fired. An inch of plywood was like a skein of tissue to a fifty-calibre bullet travelling at 27,000 feet per second. Another huge bloom of blood splashed out onto the beige-coloured wall.
Milton stopped shooting.
His ears were ringing.
“Is it done?” Su-Yung said.
The next sound he heard, unmistakeably, even at this distance, was the muffled sound of screaming.
“It’s done.”
The unfinished room was full of the smell of burnt powder. Milton pushed himself backward on his toes and his forearms, moving away from the window. He swept the six spent shell cases into a pile. He scooped them into his hands and dropped them into his pocket. They were hot to the touch.
“How many?”
“Five,” Milton said.
“But you only shot six times. You hit five?”
Milton nodded.
“Extraordinary.”
Milton indicated the rifle. “I just point and shoot,” he said.
“That is a painful lesson for them to learn. And in their own building.”
Milton said nothing.
“We must go,” Su-Yung said. “They will close down the area. We must not be here when that happens. Your cover will not stand up to scrutiny.”
Milton came to his knees and stood up. He closed the plastic sheeting again, feeding the ties through the corresponding eyelets and tightening them. There was no sign that he had ever even been here. He wrapped the rifle in the blanket again and they made their way back down the stairwell. The garage was still deserted, gloomy and silent, although the sound of sirens was audible from outside. Su-Yung went to the van
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