The red dot looks Iike an oddly-placed Christmas ornament, only it’s on my chest and not on a tree. The Sniper found me. Years on the run leads to this, then: a split second decision in which I have two paths: stand and accept the bullet, or run. He knows that I know he has found me; if his mark is there, he sees me, too. So he’s eyeing me now, from some distance, probably smiling, knowing I lost. I want to smile, but I don’t want to give too much away.

Just a few seconds more and my own sniper will target him, too. Only, my sniper won’t give him the chance to look down and see the dot on his chest; my sniper will shoot as soon as he gets the target.

Merry Christmas, after all.