I’d been raised hunting and fishing by my father, and had a love of both. I knew what a well-aimed projectile from my Browning 30-06 could do to a man’s head, so I incessantly practiced working the slide of the bolt action rifle. I was already a crack shot. When I felt that I was fast and smooth enough to get off 10 rounds in less than 15 seconds, I’d be ready.
I had the rooftop picked out (less than 30 yards across the street from the shop), the crosshairs of my Hawke scope were sighted in, and I knew the order in which my antagonists would exit the door. I’d make sure that cocksucking bastard Steve Grabowski would be first. Of course I was slipping into madness, but it felt so goddamn good, so right, and so fair.