by Dean Ralph

Created on: October 15, 2009

GHOST SNIPER

CHAPTER ONE

Sitting alone in the dark, his face hidden by the dark shadows cast by the dim light that shone through the broken, dust covered window, the shadowy figure leaned back in the old wooden chair. In the dim light he could see the cobwebs, undisturbed, in the corner. Dust covered an old metal filing cabinet that stood underneath the cobwebs. It had been the better part of twenty years since he last stood in this room.

The old factory warehouse had been closed for several years now. It was obvious that no one had even tried to keep it up. In its days of operation the old dilapidated building sat surrounded by almost fifty acres of timber and brush. In the years that had past, however, housing developments had slowly began to take over the scenery. The suburbanites had finally managed to convince the city officials that the old building was a blight on the neighborhood and needed to be torn down. Personally, he felt that it was the high class homes and snobby people that owned them that were the blight, not only on the neighborhood, but society in general.

After being served with the notice of the Government's intent to take control of the property, the owner had no choice but to give it up to the snobs who truly ran the government. Officially, they weren't even a part of the government, but, everyone has their price, especially government officials. The City gave him a fair price, and quickly sold it to a housing developer. The warehouse would be torn down in less than a week and new homes would begin going up almost immediately after. All that worked to the advantage of the man sitting in the shadows. Even if he were to leave evidence of his being there, by the time the Feds figure out the location he had chosen, it would be destroyed and all evidence with it.

Closing his eyes, the man recalled life before Suburbia. The last time he was here, before this mission, was the day he left for the Marine Corps. His father was right here in this very room, too busy to talk. The man recalled walking out of the door and never looking back, knowing that his father wouldn't be looking.

He boarded the bus for South Carolina and Paris Island. There, he knew, is where he would find himself and become the man he wanted to be. Although he didn't necessarily find himself to be the man he thought he would be. His dreams of making it in the Corps as anything but a grunt were short lived. He hadn't done well enough in school or on the entrance exams

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