Harold had the adult boy framed in the round lens—a perfect photo waiting to be shot. He watched as the youth shimmied hips and manipulated ankles to stay atop the board and maneuver it to defy the wrath of the cresting wave. He was power and energy wrapped in an Adonis shell. Harold hated him.

A slip nearly cost the boy his ride. Harold held his breath. He wanted the surfer to remain upright; he needed him to stay in the telescopic apparatus.

“That’s right, pretty rich boy.” Harold’s voice was a guttural rasp. His vocal chords were not what they once were. A night of agonizing screams took his voice as if he’d swallowed the IED instead of driving over it. “Be glad for your life, your freedom. I gave it to you. Me and so many others suffered so your wealthy parents could shield you from the cruel world.”

The figure blurred in the lens. Harold didn’t wipe the tears. They always came moments before the shot. It was part of the process. He was hidden in a tangle of beach growth hundreds of yards away. They had taught him to do this as part of his training. It was useless knowledge now that he was home, except for this.

The surfer raised his arms as he glided on the pathetic remains of the great wave as it died on the shore. Harold grit his teeth an pulled the rifle’s trigger.

“That’s for your ignorance of the world.” He watched the shot go clean through the boy’s skull. It went against his training. A sniper didn’t admire his work, he ran.

Harold packed the gun and tucked it behind the back of his wheelchair. Sirens grew loud as they neared. He had to move. He grabbed the steel wheels in an expert grip and pushed.

The chair didn’t move.

Harold cursed. He’d sat too long. The wheels were buried deep in the beach sand.

He lunged forward and fell to the ground. Using his powerful upper body and arms, he clutched the chair and yanked it free.

“Sir, don’t move.” The voice carried the unmistakable authority of a cop. “Let me help you.”

Harold put on his most pathetic look. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

“Did you see anything suspicious around here? Another surfer’s been killed.” The cop grabbed Harold by the shoulders and helped him into his chair.

The ex-soldier raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say. The Long Beach Sniper strikes again. How many does that make?”

“Six now.”

“I sure hope you get him. The beach just isn’t the same without them surfer boys.”

“We’ll get him. Here, let me push you to the boardwalk. That guy may be lurking around still.”

“I appreciate it sir.” Harold turned to make sure the broken down weapon was securely hidden. “Can’t be too safe.”

“You a vet?”

“I am.”

The cop saluted. “Thank you for your sacrifice, Sir.”

Harold smiled as the cop pushed him away from the scene.

This kid got it.