Andrew Peterson - First to Kill

Okay, now he had to find a position that could be seen from each of those four locations. He slithered along the fallen tree trunk and every five feet or so peered over the top, checking each shooting position up on the rim. Five minutes later, he found an ideal place near a main arterial branch. From this location, he could see all four of the potential shooting positions, and as a bonus, this spot could also see a large section of the southern rim stretching toward the rock spire in case Leonard wasn’t occupying one of those four spots.

Perfect.

Ignoring his blood-soaked sleeve, he crawled back to his ghillie suit and backpack and removed the spool of fifty-pound fishing line. Dragging the pack and ghillie suit, he made his way back to the arterial branch and began looking for a piece of wood around three feet long and two inches in diameter. He found what he was looking for attached to the fallen oak’s trunk. He removed Harv’s Predator knife from the ankle sheath and began cutting the piece of wood free.

When the branch was detached, he cut a six-inch section off the end of it and notched the middle of it like a log cabin. He did the same to the longer piece near one end. Using the fifty-pound fishing line, he secured the six-inch piece to the longer piece at the notches. When he finished, he ended up with a crude-looking crucifix of sorts.

Using loops of line around the butt of his Sig Sauer pistol, he attached the weapon to a branch extending out from the fallen tree trunk. He tied the handgun to a point on the branch where only the top of the gun could be seen from the other side. When the gun was tight and wouldn’t budge, he cut the line and tied the loose end to the trigger.

He looked over his shoulder for a place to loop the fishing line around a branch or heavy rock. Shit. There was nothing. How could he have overlooked such an important detail? More to the point, what was he going to do now? He cursed himself for being so sloppy and ill-prepared. Damn, his arm hurt. His shirtsleeve was literally dripping wet with blood and so was the upper half of his shirt. Worse, he was beginning to lose sensation in his right thumb. Nerve damage, he feared. Not to mention he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.

Running on fumes, he considered kicking back and waiting for the cavalry to arrive. It didn’t seem like such a bad idea right about now, but that might give Leonard a chance to escape. He thought about Grangeland and the cowardly bullet Leonard had fired. He thought about Harv’s wife, Candace, and imagined Leonard shooting her through her kitchen window. Anger flared and he temporarily tapped it, then forced it aside. He studied his options again. Where would he loop the fishing line? Think, damn it. Think . He’d spent nearly twenty minutes setting up in this location. He didn’t have time or energy to find a different location. His body was beginning to shut down.

An old hatred began to flood his soul. How could he have been so stupid and shortsighted? He was going to die in this remote Montana canyon and Bridgestone would get away- with his money. A feeling of rage bored into his mind like an ice pick. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs and beat his fist into the tree. He hated the idea of Bridgestone living a life of luxury, having never answered for burning James Ortega alive and killing all those FBI people. He squinted and balled his hands into fists. Bridgestone, you lowlife piece of shit!

He closed his eyes and concentrated. This meltdown served no useful purpose. He needed to suppress it. Nathan brought his mental image forward-his safety catch. He put himself under imaginary trees and let autumn-colored leaves flutter past his body. They brushed past his skin and tumbled along the ground. He slowed his breathing and relaxed his hands, then leaned his head back against the trunk and sighed. Falling leaves. Falling from where? From above. He opened his eyes and smiled. The solution had been right in front of him all along.

Leonard hadn’t heard any additional pistol shots for over half an hour. Maybe McBride had finally scared the cat off or he’d bled to death. From his current position on the south rim, he had a clear view of the canyon below, but he hadn’t seen any movement at all, feline or human. Was McBride telling the truth? Were reinforcements arriving within the next hour? Maybe it was bullshit. Maybe McBride was just trying to force his hand, to flush him out. He wasn’t sure. He knew nothing about McBride’s past other than what he’d just learned. One thing was certain: The guy was a damned good shot. At the compound, he’d killed Sammy at a distance of six hundred yards. He didn’t know how far away McBride had been when he’d nailed Ernie, but as with Sammy, it had been a single shot. One shot, one kill. The sniper’s motto. If this guy truly had been a Marine scout sniper, taking him out wasn’t going to easy.

Was the cash really worth it? Hell yes, it was. He’d spent ten long years amassing it, putting up with Ernie’s short temper and endless baggage. Shit, he had three million dollars in cash no more than two hundred yards away, all he had to do was go dig it up. He knew McBride would be watching the spire, but from where? He silently cursed Ernie for bringing McBride up here. Knowing he couldn’t approach the money until McBride was dead, he had few options. Maybe he should try a different approach. What could it hurt at this point? Yeah, it might just work.

He pulled the radio and thumbed the transmit button. “McBride, you copy?”

Nothing, no response.

“McBride?”

“I’m a little busy right now.”

“I’m willing to split the money. Fifty-fifty.”

“Not interested.”

“Come on, you can’t use a million-and-a-half in cash? Tax-free? Last chance. I’ll split it with you. Right down the middle.”

“Not interested.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No doubt you are.”

“I’m going to enjoy killing you, McBride.”

“Go ahead, give it your best shot. You’ve already missed twice. Why not go for the hat trick?”

“You’re all talk.” Leonard turned off the radio and clipped it to his belt.

Looking for anything out of place, he made a quick scan of his combat uniform. He found nothing dangling, out of place, or shiny. Satisfied, he began a slow scan of the creek’s northern bank through his rifle scope. If McBride were down there, he’d be hidden in all that green undergrowth. The problem was, there was a ton of it and McBride’s ghillie suit made him virtually invisible. If McBride were telling the truth, and he had no reason to assume otherwise, time was indeed running out. If he couldn’t find McBride within the next twenty minutes or so, he’d have to abandon his cash and bug out. In that event, he vowed to kill McBride and his lousy partner. It might not happen two weeks from now, or two years from now, or even ten years from now, but McBride would die for denying him his money.

As Leonard swung his scope across a particularly dense area of brush, he heard two quick pops of a handgun. He focused on the general location where he’d heard the reports. “What’s the matter McBride?” he whispered. “Your furry friend come back?”

A few seconds later, he saw a bush move as though it had been bumped. There. Two more shots from deep within undergrowth followed by the distinctive crackle of the shots echoing down the canyon. Handgun shots, not a rifle. He’d seen the actual muzzle flashes and had an exact location pinpointed.

“You’re mine, McBride.” He steadied his weapon and saw the top half of a handgun atop a fallen tree. As if looking at a gift from heaven, Leonard watched in abject fascination as his enemy revealed himself. Slowly rising from behind the fallen trunk, the hood of a ghillie materialized like a ghost emerging from a grave. He caught the glint of a pair of field glasses inside the dark recess of the hood.