Justine Saracen - The Sniper’s Kiss

Historical fiction is not only the creature of imagination; it also relies on professional expertise. In this respect, I am most grateful for advice and translation (from / into Russian) from Tatiana Davydova and especially from Galina Lemelman, who maintains her own brave LGBT press in Moscow. Fellow author and lawyer Carsen Taite provided me with useful legal information, and Radclyffe, in her surgeon’s persona, assisted me in calculating how badly I could wound my heroine without killing her. I offer gratitude and affection to Shelley Thrasher, a friend, I hope, and stalwart editor, who has guided me through the shoals of prose writing for eleven novels. I acknowledge the brilliance of artist Sheri Halal, who conjured another eye-catching cover from the paint box of her mind, and the eagle-sharp eye of Stacia Seaman for final editing. Lastly, I again pay homage to Radclyffe the publisher, who built the edifice of Bold Strokes Books on the strength of her own imagination and industry. I wish I could share a bottle of wine, or three, with you all.

Major Pavlichenko rested both elbows on the table and stared down at her wineglass. “We’re not like other soldiers. Yes, sometimes they send you off to knock out communication lines or machine-gun nests, and then you’re just a rifleman with a good aim.” She paused, turning the glass with her fingertips, and Mia knew more was coming.

“But sometimes it’s personal. You’re assigned to hunt a particular officer, or an enemy sniper, one of your professional colleagues, so to speak. Then the act of shooting is… a kind of intimacy and leaves a mark on you.”

“Intimacy? Shooting an enemy from a long distance?”

“Yes, because the target’s not anonymous anymore. You might track him for days or watch him for hours, as he moves around his subordinates. When he finally settles down and you get him in your scope, you fixate on him, on his uniform. While you’re waiting for the perfect shot, you can see his rank on his cap or collar, his medals. You study the details of his face, whether he shaved that morning or has a dueling scar. Maybe he’s handsome or looks like someone you know. You wait for him to turn just the right way, and when you lay your crosshairs over his face, you look into his eyes. He’s perhaps five hundred meters away, but he could be in your embrace, and he’s yours completely.”