It was a warm may evening and, although there were not many insects around yet, he had brushed a few off his face. He knew that, in a couple of weeks, there would be a full contingent of Minnesota mosquitoes to cope with on the nights he would be out. He shifted his position, eased himself off a root, and then realigned his sights on the bright kitchen window of the house across the street. The Ruger Mini-14 rifle felt cool and comfortable in his hands although a trickle of sweat slowly made its way down the middle of his back. He had no telescopic sight on the rifle but felt he wouldn’t need one at such a short distance. He studied once again the visible parts of the interior of the house. Not much had changed from the reconnaissance mission he had made here the week before. The house was a large, open-designed rambler in a wealthy neighborhood across the street from the Normandale Golf Course in Edina. The house was occupied by The Honorable Judge Edward R. Borgert and his wife. He could see the judge in the living room to the right sitting in a large recliner watching TV. Borgert’s back was to the patriot, who, nevertheless, could clearly see the top of his head. The Borgerts didn’t appear to value their privacy; although their house had many large windows facing the golf course, none of them with curtains or shades. The patriot smiled to himself, imagining the Borgerts looking at the house for the first time and discussing with each other how nice it would be to be able to look across the street and up the little hill to see who was golfing on the ninth hole that day. He wondered if they objected to the juniper bushes which partially blocked their prized view. The patriot spent a lot of his time visualizing scenarios in his mind. His vivid imagination allowed him to enjoy his time alone when he could escape his many aggravations by mulling over his ideas. Although he almost let himself continue picturing the life of the Borgerts, trying to recreate their conversations, their hobbies or even their sex life, he concluded he didn’t have time for that right then. All of that could come later, when he would relive the night in his mind. He brought himself back to the present and again reviewed his escape plan. The night was dark, and he could hear no voices. Off in the distance a stereo was playing rap music - probably some spoiled rich kid showing off the car Daddy got him. The patriot didn’t like rich people and especially didn’t like their kids. He was certain that the current generation was doomed by a lifestyle of comfort and easy access to money and credit. Behind him lay the ninth hole of the course and a little farther back there was a little cluster of buildings which housed the grounds equipment. His car was parked in between the grounds’ sheds, and he had little fear that anyone would see him leave. Sunday nights were quiet in that area with little traffic. When his work was done, he knew he could run to his car in less than two minutes and that any police responding to the area would go to the Borgerts’ front door on the other side of the course. Just then, Judge Borgert got up from his chair and walked into the kitchen. He removed an ice cream container from the freezer, spooned a hefty amount into a bowl, and sat down at a small table facing the windows. Borgert, a large man, was bathed in light from the row of small track lights on the kitchen ceiling. He began to eat the ice cream methodically. The patriot checked the other windows again but could not see the judge’s wife. He wondered whether she was home or in another part of the house. He lifted his head and looked up and down the street once more for anyone walking. He saw no one. As he lined up the rifle’s rear peep sight around the front post, he paused. A muffled distant voice said something, and the rap music died immediately. He was about to take a big step. His life would change forever after this night, he knew. He would forever be a hunted man and knew that the government would shut him away in a prison if they caught him. He also knew from experience that almost all hunted men were eventually caught. He felt that if he could stay free long enough to accomplish his goal, the risk would be worth it. He had planned long and taken the steps he knew were important so that he would be exposed as little as possible. He had his tools, he had made his list, and he had carefully looked over his areas of operation, as he liked to think of them. Still, there was an element of unreality to it all. Up to this point it had all been an exercise in thought and theory, but if he carried out his plan tonight, there would be no going back. He checked once again to make sure the top of the front sight was centered on Borgert’s chest. The rifle rested comfortably on his left palm. Sliding his right index finger into the trigger guard, he pushed the safety forward until he heard it click off. He had loaded five fully jacketed .223 shells into the rifle’s magazine and had a full twenty- round magazine in his jacket as a backup. He tightened up the slack on the trigger until he met resistance. He then took a breath. As he let it halfway out, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle surged easily against his shoulder, and the bark of the report didn’t seem very loud at all. Judge Borgert was amazed to see his picture window shatter before his eyes. At the same moment, he felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. The wind was knocked out of his lungs and he rocked back in his chair. He felt no pain. For a split second, he thought there had been a gas explosion. Then he felt another blow to his chest but then nothing at all when the patriot’s third shot hit him just under his left eye. The patriot was up and running while the echo of the last shot rang through the still neighborhood. His night vision had been partially ruined by the bright muzzle blasts, but there was enough ambient light for him to make his way across the ninth green and over to the sheds. With his heart beating fast, he slid the rifle into the case on the back seat. He slipped the ghillie suit over his head and threw it in the rear of his three-year-old dark blue Ford Explorer. Closing the hatch as quietly as he could, he got behind the wheel. After taking a couple of seconds to get his breathing under control, he started the engine. He pulled out onto the road and drove down the uninhabited portion with his headlights off. He turned them on as he neared the next intersection and stopped for the stop sign. He made his way through the neighborhood to eastbound Interstate Highway 494 and joined hundreds of other cars. |