John Miller - Smoke and Mirrors

THE MISSISSIPPI DELTA SOUTH OF MEMPHIS

THURSDAY

Rifle case in hand, a solitary figure moved among the trees and scrub brush made leafless by the season. The still, predawn air made fog as the man exhaled. The cold stimulated him. It brought back memories of the glacial eastern European mountains where he had spent his youth learning the art of murder.

Dressed entirely in camouflage, the man slowly and silently made his way through the woods on the damp leaves. Not that there was any danger here in this remote place. No enemy awaited him-only a target of his choosing, who was at that moment taking in and expelling a few last breaths. But being careful was reflexive. Caution made the difference between life and death.

The killer moved to the hide he had selected at the edge of the forest line-a sweet gum tree that had been felled by autumn winds. Kneeling behind the tree, he set his rigid case on the ground, unbuckled its latch, and lifted out the Dakota T-76 Longbow rifle topped with a powerful scope.

Although he much preferred operating at close range, he could nevertheless place a.338 Lapua Magnum round through a cantaloupe at twelve hundred yards. At three thousand feet per second, the bullet would punch a.34-caliber entrance hole in the target’s skull, whereupon the hydrostatic pressure would literally hollow out the cranium, filling the air downrange with a vapor comprised of brain tissue, bone chips, and blood. Surviving such a cranial event was about as impossible as threading a needle in the confines of a dark closet while wearing boxing gloves.

The shooter gently leaned his rifle against the fallen tree’s trunk. Reaching into the case, he pulled out a sand-filled canvas bag. Using the back edge of his right hand, he chopped a channel into the center of the bag before setting the gun’s stock into the groove. A squirrel climbing the trunk of a nearby tree became aware of the man and chirped, its tail flicking nervously.

Taking up the gun, he opened the bolt and pressed it forward, watching as the brass case of the topmost shell slid from the magazine and vanished into the firing chamber. The mechanism sounded like a vault door closing in the quiet woods. Bringing the butt firmly against his shoulder, he lowered his cheek to the cold synthetic stock and looked downrange through the scope.

Ready now, the man behind the tree had only to wait for the morning light to gather so he could get a line of sight across the expansive field. Even after ninety career kills-not including collateral damage-the assassin felt the old mix of anticipation and adrenaline growing within him. He held out his hand and smiled to see that his fingers were as rock-steady as those of a surgeon.

Of all the people the man had neutralized, only three of them had been dispatched for personal reasons. Until two years earlier he had only killed because he was ordered to by the state, or, after the wall fell, had been paid handsomely to kill. He had come here to make one more personal kill, to clip one final loose string hanging from the fabric of his life.

The man had never failed to carry out an assignment because, unlike other professional killers, he always had an insurmountable advantage. It wasn’t merely that he was more intelligent than his targets or their protectors, or that his lethal-arts skills were vastly superior-although those things were true enough. The killer’s real edge was his vision of each assignment as a chess match-a game of strategy and deception, wherein he laid and sprang elaborate traps, always ending with a vanquished king. Because the stakes in his games were absolute, he always controlled the board, only making moves to spark his opponent’s reaction. There was never any question as to the outcome.

Taking a toothpick from the open rifle case, he clenched it between his teeth, chewing on the tip until the faint taste of clove filled his mouth. Daylight was imminent, and as the hunter peered through the scope with his finger outside the trigger guard, a calm enveloped him. He knew-as surely as the sun was rising at his back-that this shot would kick-start the most challenging game of his career.

Sitting in a deer stand fourteen feet in the air, Winter Massey looked at Faith Ann Porter, a tall, skinny, fair-skinned thirteen-year-old with large blue eyes and reddish blonde hair.

Two high-powered rifles leaned against the rail in front of them.

As the sun rose, the woods surrounding the field came slowly into focus. The field, planted with rye, clover, and alfalfa, formed a natural basin bordered by two ridges that ran east to west. At one edge of the field, a line of tall bamboo created a natural wall.

Faith Ann smiled excitedly at Winter, her cold-reddened face surrounded by a camouflage fleece hood. Far to the north, another hunter’s gunshot pealed like dull thunder. The shot was followed a few seconds later by another.

To his right, Winter spotted four deer moving cautiously down the slope among the trees. He placed a hand on Faith Ann’s narrow shoulder and silently pointed to the animals. Nodding solemnly, she slowly lifted her rifle and, using the still to steady the weapon, looked through the scope at the animals. Using his binoculars, Winter watched a large buck trotting after the does, head up, ears flickering, nose sampling the air, steam issuing from his nostrils. Winter’s heart quickened as he studied the antlers and counted the points.

“Is he a shooter?” she asked in a whisper.

“Eight-point,” Winter said. “Take your time and pick your shot when he’s between trees. Make sure of your sight picture, and-”

“I know. Squeeze, don’t jerk.”

Faith Ann put her cheek against the stock and her eye behind the scope. She flicked off the safety, keeping her finger out of the trigger guard as Winter had taught her.

The buck stopped fifty yards away, broadside to the stand. Faith Ann, doing as Winter had instructed her, used this opportunity to fix the crosshairs of her scope on the area just behind his shoulder, where the heart and the lungs were nestled.

Winter watched Faith Ann release her safety as a rustling sounded across the field. He turned to see a second buck breaking from the wall of bamboo. The huge deer’s coat was dark, almost black, and the golden antlers growing from his skull looked like tree limbs glued onto his head, held up by a swollen neck.

“Hold your shot,” Winter whispered. “Safety back on.”

“Don’t shoot?” she asked.

“Very slowly, look out in the field to your left.”

Faith Ann turned her head and exhaled when she saw the animal.

Like a stallion, the buck trotted straight into the middle of the field toward the nervous group of does standing at the edge.

Faith Ann moved with deliberate slowness, careful not to make any noise or movements the deer might spot. A rutting buck would be less wary than usual, but anything out of the ordinary would spook him.

Winter held his breath and placed a hand on his rifle. If Faith Ann missed or couldn’t bring herself to shoot-which happened even to seasoned hunters faced with such a trophy-he could make the shot for her. If she missed, he would have a second or two before the animal bolted, and he would fire before it took off.

Winter had never witnessed bucks in combat, but he knew that was exactly what was unfolding before them. Winter counted the points on the rack of the larger deer. Twelve points with such elegant symmetry was a rarity.

The eight-point marched into the green field, placing himself between the does and the mature interloper. Like gladiators, they circled each other slowly, heads low. The larger buck had perhaps three years and forty pounds on the eight-point, whose antlers were half as massive. The older deer’s muscles were better defined, his neck twice as thick, and his muzzle turning gray. It was like a hound facing off with a mastiff.