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The dream always ended the same way, with the knowledge of failure, followed by the deaths... his wife... his child... his mistress, and her child, which should have been his, and in his dreams, was his... all falling beside him, like trees felled with a single swipe of an axe, to lay like cordwood at his feet... and always, the curses, the derision, the fingers pointing at him, before they, too, began to fall lifelessly around him... and, finally, the terrorist, the one his bullet had missed, seen as if his own eyes were keener than his sniper's scope, leering directly at him, eyes burning like firepits as he held his thumb down on the button embedded in the black box; he had not hesitated, had not wavered, and had not doubted, but as always, he had missed... helpless to save them all, and helpless to save himself.
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