I lined up my shot. I had to fix this. Everything had gone wrong, and it was up to me. After all, it was my fault to begin with. That sadistic bastard was a million times worse than his father.

I took careful aim. I had to be right on with this. If I missed, it all went to hell in an industrial sized hand basket.

I knew the range, down to the foot. I knew the wind speed, and adjusted accordingly. Bullets can drift in a high wind when they have to travel a half-mile.

With a muzzle velocity of 2,800 feet per second, it would take just under a second for the bullet to reach it’s target. I hoped I was as good as I thought I was.

Looking through the scope, I saw my hands go under my tunic.

Time to test the grandfather paradox.