My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

I_Eson

May 25, 2025

My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter 8 — The Shadow's Miss

The roots of the mangrove trees crackled like the knuckles of a killer warming up his hands before the decisive blow. Laurent Roche — or, as some knew him, the Shadow — watched the special forces from his hideout. They were carrying out bags, escorting pirates and hostages, hauling out seized weapons.

On the military frequency, his tuned-in radio hissed:

“Sweep complete.”

Everyone boarded the boats and left, leaving the ravaged camp in silence.

The Shadow waited.

He figured their departure might’ve been bait. There could still be an ambush waiting.

Thirty minutes passed. Then another fifteen. He waited. Like a predator who knows the scent of a trap.

Only when the sky above the island flared with dawn did he give a short nod to the pirates still hidden behind the mangroves. They had been silently watching him—and waiting.
“You go to the boat,” he said. “Make a wide loop. If they chase you—lead them as far away as you can. Don’t worry about yourselves. If they catch you, don’t resist. I need to get inside the camp. Then we can save everyone.”

Rafael Gomez, known as Palma, and Alexis Bergeret—nicknamed the Cat—exchanged a glance, nodded, and melted into the foliage. A few minutes later came a splash. The boat slid out from the thickets, the motor whined—and a foamy trail sliced through the darkness of the water.

Laurent stayed behind. Alone.

He studied the camp carefully.

Looked like there really was no ambush waiting for him.

Slowly, stealthily—living up to his name—he crept toward the building and slipped into the hangar unnoticed.

His camouflage was soaked, reeking of rotting seaweed, and it drove him crazy.

The base was deserted.

Shadow knew the place well. He had set up several of the caches himself. So he quickly found the false panel he’d installed. Inside was a waterproof case — packed with a rifle and suppressor, a satellite phone, and a thick roll of cash wound tight like a cylinder.

Laurent pulled out the phone, switched it on, checked the battery, and waited for the signal. Then he dialed. Waited. On the fourth ring — a click, and that familiar, disgusting breathing.
"Who the hell is it this time... damn it..." grumbled the voice on the other end. "Do you even know how much a minute on this satellite costs?"

"Shut the fuck up, Pinder. Not in the mood for your crap. They got our guys. All of them. The French raided the whole goddamn camp. Doc’s in chains. You don’t get off your ass — we all go down. And you’ll be first."

"Your son’s been running coke on the patrol boats. And your number two? Freeport’s had his name on a list for weeks. You want the Tribune splashing it across tomorrow’s front page — or are you gonna press the right buttons while you still can?"

“Scumbag,” Pinder exhaled. “What do you want?”

“Make the French marines hand our people over to the police. Any excuse will do — border violation, assault on your agents, drunken brawl — I don’t care. Just make sure they all end up in Fox Hill. Fast.”

“This ain’t a circus, Shadow. I don’t have a magic wand to command the French. They’re probably halfway to Fort-de-France already, you get that?”

“But you do have papers, stamps — and folks who like their envelopes thick. Get moving, Pinder. Don’t stall.”

There was a pause. A lighter snapped.

“Fine. Three days. No more. After that, even I can’t hold them.”

“That’ll do,” said Laurent, and hung up.

He exhaled — sharply, through his teeth, like spitting out venom. Then stood up, rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck, and turned toward the door.

Footsteps. Confident ones, behind him. He didn’t flinch.

Cat and Palma entered, grim, scanning the hangar.

“They trashed the whole damn place,” muttered Cat, wiping his forehead with a rag and kicking an empty shell that skittered across the floor.

“Empty. They stripped the place bare — even grabbed the damn rum,” Palma added, giving an empty crate a kick.

Shadow approached the cache and slid aside one of the false floor panels.

“Not everything,” he said.

Beneath the tile lay supplies, neatly arranged and sealed tight: backpacks, canned food, radios, boxes of ammunition.

“We’re taking whatever’s left,” he said. “This place is compromised. We move to the new site.”

“What about Doc?” Cat asked, pulling a pistol from the stash. “Where’d they drag him off to?”

“Fox Hill. If our guy doesn’t screw the pooch,” Laurent muttered, checking the rifle.

“And if he does?” Palma rumbled — a big, no-bullshit bastard with hands like anchors, hunched over the map.

“Then we play the next round for his sorry hide,” Shadow said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “But first — the kid.”

The silence thickened — like gun smoke after a misfire. No one needed to spell it out. The boy didn’t have to be guilty. He was the reason they looked weak — someone always pays for that.

Cat stepped in without a sound, peering over Shadow’s shoulder. The sniper was hunched over the map, dragging a thick line with his nail.

“We move here,” he said quietly, jabbing a finger at the paper.

He marked a spot at Pigeon Point, then another — L’Île-Échouée.

“There’s a shack here. Old boat workshop from back when Bermudians used to fix trawlers. We’ll grab a skiff and head to the island. Sail, oars, a net.”

Cat grunted:

“What if the frog-eaters are still out there?”

“I’ll come as a fisherman — leave as a sniper.”

Palma ran a hand over his shaved scalp and gave a nod. He didn’t argue. None of them did.

The air went heavy — men spoke with looks, not words.

...
Morning.

Pigeon Point met them in silence.

The old boat shed had clearly taken a hit from the tsunami — slanted, a hole in the wall, a half-torn door creaking in the wind. The stench of dead fish hung in the air.

The owner — a Bermudian in wrinkled shorts, with a face like a crumpled nautical chart — stepped out wordlessly. He jerked his chin toward a battered boat, as if to say, "There. Take it and get lost."

Shadow examined the boat closely. Oars — intact. Sail — usable. Gear — enough.

He pulled out a couple of folded bills and placed them in the man’s warm, calloused hand.

“No questions.”

The man nodded.

“Didn’t see you. This boat was never here.”

Cat and Palma dragged the boat to the water, tossing a fishing net over the bottom.

Shadow carefully slid the rifle into an oiled bundle and covered it with the net — perfect camouflage.

“Like we planned,” Palma hissed, securing the towline.

“We tow you out six miles. From there, you row. Drop anchor about three miles offshore — just another broke fisherman.”

Shadow checked his radio, gave a nod.

“We stay on channel,” Palma continued.

“Once it’s dark, you take the shot, call us in, flash your light. From shore, the frog-eaters won’t see a thing. We’ll spot it easy, pick you up, and we’re gone.”

Shadow nodded and jumped onto the boat. The engine growled, the towline went taut and rose from the water. The dinghy bobbed on the waves and followed — heading toward L’Île-Échouée.

...
L’Île-Échouée. The boat had vanished over the horizon. He was alone now.

Shadow stretched, scanned the surroundings, checked the disguise, tested the boat’s balance, and pulled out the fishing gear.

Beneath the canvas — a rifle. Underfoot — a torn fishing net. He looked like a poor fisherman with a bad catch.

e raised his spyglass. On the shore — a camp. Soldiers hidden behind sandbags. A boy drawing something in the dirt. A woman nearby. And that strange dog.

The dog stared out at the sea. At Laurent. As if he saw him. As if the dog somehow knew he was there.

Laurent lowered the spyglass. A face surfaced in his memory — his brother, Doc. Gray-haired. Stubborn. Locked away somewhere in a cage.

“Vengeance is a dead end,” Doc had once said.

Laurent remembered.

Maybe Doc had a point… he thought.

But if he backed off now, he’d stop being himself. The Shadow would vanish.

He exhaled softly, as if speaking to the boy:

“You’re gonna die, kid. Just not your day today.”

When night fell, he rowed closer to shore.

The moon was tucked behind the clouds. The water — ink-black. Perfect.

At two hundred meters, he wouldn’t miss.

Shadow assembled the rifle. Screwed on the suppressor. Tilted his head into the wind.

Silence.

He took aim.

The boy sat by the fire.

First shot:

His finger touched the trigger.

In that very second, the dog lunged, growling.

Its head surged into the scope, blocking the target.

Laurent flinched — the shot went wide, straight into the sand on the beach.

Second shot:

He reloaded.

Target: the boy’s chest.

A sudden gust of wind rocked the boat.

The shot missed — lost in the dark.

Third shot:

He froze.

Target: the head.

His finger began to squeeze—

and then, as if a cold, foreign hand gripped his wrist,

the bullet plunged into the sea.

Lights flared in the camp. Shouts. Barking.

The dog was torn with the urge to chase.

Shadow quietly packed up the rifle, wrapped it in cloth, and pulled out the radio.

“Extract me.”

Three short flashes of his light — toward the open sea. Barely visible.

He sat in the dark, waiting for the boat, muttering to himself:

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Shadow…

I’ve fired through fog. Through rain. I never missed.

And now — three shots.

All wasted.

Three shots, all wide…

like someone yanked my hand.”

en 1

Correct

Corrections

shadowfax26

“Fine.

Three days.

No more.

After that, even I can’t hold them.” “That’ll do,” said Laurent, and hung up.

Then stood up, rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck, and turned toward the door.

Footsteps.

Confident ones, behind him.

Feedback

Nice

Screwed on the suppressor.

Tilted his head into the wind.

Silence.

He took aim.

The boy sat by the fire.

First shot: His finger touched the trigger.

In that very second, the dog lunged, growling.

Its head surged into the scope, blocking the target.

Laurent flinched — the shot went wide, straight into the sand on the beach.

Second shot: He reloaded.

Target: the boy’s chest.

A sudden gust of wind rocked the boat.

The shot missed — lost in the dark.

Third shot: He froze.

Target: the head.

His finger began to squeeze— and then, as if a cold, foreign hand gripped his wrist, the bullet plunged into the sea.

Lights flared in the camp.

Shouts.

Barking.

The dog was torn with the urge to chase.

Shadow quietly packed up the rifle, wrapped it in cloth, and pulled out the radio.

“Extract me.” Three short flashes of his light — toward the open sea.

Barely visible.

He sat in the dark, waiting for the boat, muttering to himself: “What the hell’s wrong with you, Shadow… I’ve fired through fog.

Through rain.

I never missed.

And now — three shots.

All wasted.

Three shots, all wide… like someone yanked my hand.”

Oars — intact.

Sail — usable.

Gear — enough.

He pulled out a couple of folded bills and placed them in the man’s warm, calloused hand.

“No questions.” The man nodded.

“Didn’t see you.

This boat was never here.” Cat and Palma dragged the boat to the water, tossing a fishing net over the bottom.

My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Shadow examined the boat closely.

Chapter 8 — The Shadow's Miss The roots of the mangrove trees crackled like the knuckles of a killer warming up his hands before the decisive blow.

Laurent Roche — or, as some knew him, the Shadow — watched the special forces from his hideout.

They were carrying out bags, escorting pirates and hostages, hauling out seized weapons.

On the military frequency, his tuned-in radio hissed: “Sweep complete.” Everyone boarded the boats and left, leaving the ravaged camp in silence.

The Shadow waited.

He figured their departure might’ve been bait.

There could still be an ambush waiting.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then another fifteen.

He waited.

Like a predator who knows the scent of a trap.

Only when the sky above the island flared with dawn did he give a short nod to the pirates still hidden behind the mangroves.

They had been silently watching him—and waiting.

“You go to the boat,” he said.

“Make a wide loop.

If they chase you—lead them as far away as you can.

Don’t worry about yourselves.

If they catch you, don’t resist.

I need to get inside the camp.

Then we can save everyone.” Rafael Gomez, known as Palma, and Alexis Bergeret—nicknamed the Cat—exchanged a glance, nodded, and melted into the foliage.

A few minutes later came a splash.

The boat slid out from the thickets, the motor whined—and a foamy trail sliced through the darkness of the water.

Laurent stayed behind.

Alone.

He studied the camp carefully.

Looked like there really was no ambush waiting for him.

Slowly, stealthily—living up to his name—he crept toward the building and slipped into the hangar unnoticed.

His camouflage was soaked, reeking of rotting seaweed, and it drove him crazy.

The base was deserted.

Shadow knew the place well.

He had set up several of the caches himself.

So he quickly found the false panel he’d installed.

Inside was a waterproof case — packed with a rifle and suppressor, a satellite phone, and a thick roll of cash wound tight like a cylinder.

Laurent pulled out the phone, switched it on, checked the battery, and waited for the signal.

Then he dialed.

Waited.

On the fourth ring — a click, and that familiar, disgusting breathing.

"Who the hell is it this time... damn it..." grumbled the voice on the other end.

"Do you even know how much a minute on this satellite costs?"

"Shut the fuck up, Pinder.

Not in the mood for your crap.

They got our guys.

All of them.

The French raided the whole goddamn camp.

Doc’s in chains.

You don’t get off your ass — we all go down.

And you’ll be first."

"Your son’s been running coke on the patrol boats.

And your number two?

Freeport’s had his name on a list for weeks.

You want the Tribune splashing it across tomorrow’s front page — or are you gonna press the right buttons while you still can?"

“Scumbag,” Pinder exhaled.

“What do you want?” “Make the French marines hand our people over to the police.

Any excuse will do — border violation, assault on your agents, drunken brawl — I don’t care.

Just make sure they all end up in Fox Hill.

Fast.” “This ain’t a circus, Shadow.

I don’t have a magic wand to command the French.

They’re probably halfway to Fort-de-France already, you get that?” “But you do have papers, stamps — and folks who like their envelopes thick.

Get moving, Pinder.

Don’t stall.” There was a pause.

A lighter snapped.

“Fine.