Douglas Preston: Cold Vengeance

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”

“He’s awfully sure of himself,” said Pendergast. “Since nobody hunts in the Foulmire, he’s not as alert as he should be. The wind’s in our faces, he’s moving away from us — I think we can chance an open stalk.”

Esterhazy shook his head. “There’s some treacherous-looking ground ahead.”

Pendergast pointed to a sandy area adjacent to their hiding spot, where the track of the stag could be seen. “We’ll follow his track. If anyone knows the way through the Mire, he does.”

Esterhazy held out a palm. “Lead the way.”

They unshipped their rifles and crept out from behind the tor, moving toward the stag. The animal was indeed distracted, focused on scenting the air coming from the north, paying little attention to what lay behind him. His snuffling and roaring covered the sounds of their approach.

They advanced with the utmost care, pausing whenever the animal hesitated or turned. Slowly, they began to overtake him. The stag continued to ramble deeper into the Mire, apparently following an airborne scent. They continued in utter silence, unable to speak, keeping low, their Highland camouflage perfectly adapted to the moorland environment. The trail of the stag followed almost invisible rivels of firmer ground, the path snaking among treacly pools, shivering morass, and grassy flats. Whether from the untrustworthy ground, the hunt, or some other reason, the tension in the air seemed to increase.

Gradually, they moved into shooting range: three hundred yards. The stag paused yet again, turning sideways, nosing the air. With the faintest of hand gestures, Pendergast indicated a halt and carefully sank into a prone position. Pulling his H&H.300 forward, he fitted the scope to his eye and carefully aimed the rifle. Esterhazy remained ten yards behind, crouching, as motionless as a rock.

Peering through the scope, Pendergast settled the crosshairs on a spot just forward the shoulder of the animal, took a breath, and began to squeeze the trigger.

As he did so, he felt the cold touch of steel against the back of his head.

“Sorry, old boy,” said Esterhazy. “Hold your rifle out with one hand and lay it down. Slow and easy.”

Pendergast laid down the rifle.

“Stand up. Slowly.”

Pendergast complied.

Esterhazy backed away, covering the FBI agent with his hunting rifle. He suddenly laughed, the harsh sound echoing over the moorlands. Out of the corner of his eye, Pendergast saw the stag startle and bound away, disappearing into the mists.

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” said Esterhazy. “After a dozen years, it’s a bloody tragedy you didn’t leave well enough alone.”

Pendergast said nothing.

“You’re probably wondering what this is all about.”

“In fact, I am not,” said Pendergast, his voice flat.

“I’m the man you’ve been looking for: the unknown man at Project Aves. The one Charles Slade refused to name for you.”

No reaction.

“I’d give you a fuller explanation, but what’s the point? I’m sorry to do this. You realize it’s nothing personal.”

Still no reaction.

“Say your prayers, brother.”

Esterhazy raised the rifle, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

A FAINT CLICK SOUNDED IN THE DAMP AIR.

“Christ!” Esterhazy said through clenched teeth, shooting open the bolt, ejecting the bad round and slamming a new one in place.

Click.

In a flash Pendergast leapt to his feet, scooping up his rifle and leveling it at Esterhazy. “Your not-so-clever stratagem failed. I’ve suspected it since your ham-handed letter asking which firearms I’d be bringing with me. I’m afraid the ammunition in your rifle is doctored. And so the thing goes full circle: from the blanks you put in Helen’s rifle to the blanks now in your own.”

Esterhazy kept working the bolt, frantically ejecting the bad rounds with one hand while delving into his musette bag with another, scooping out fresh rounds.

“Stop or I’ll kill you,” said Pendergast.

Ignoring him, Esterhazy ejected the last round and rammed a fresh one into the receiver, then slammed the bolt into place.

“Very well. This one’s for Helen.” Pendergast pulled the trigger.

A dull thunk sounded.

Instantly realizing the situation, Pendergast threw himself back, diving for cover behind an outcropping of rock as Esterhazy fired. The live shot ricocheted off the outcropping, spraying chips. Pendergast rolled farther behind cover, ditching his rifle and pulling out the Colt.32 he had brought as a backup. He rose, aimed, and fired, but Esterhazy had already taken cover himself around the other side of the small hill, and his return fire smacked into the rocks just in front of Pendergast.

Now they were both behind cover, on either side of the tor. Esterhazy’s laugh once again cut across the land. “Looks like your not-so-clever stratagem has also failed. Did you think I’d let you out here with a working rifle? Sorry, old boy, I removed the firing pin.”

Pendergast lay on his side, hugging the rock, breathing hard. It was a standoff — they were on either side of the same small hill. That meant whoever got to the top first…

Leaping to his feet, Pendergast scrambled spider-like up the side of the tor. He arrived at the summit at the very moment as Esterhazy did and they came together in a violent embrace, grappling on the high point of the hill before toppling off, rolling down the rocky face in a desperate clinch. Shoving Esterhazy back, Pendergast swung his.32 around, but Esterhazy slashed at it with the barrel of his rifle, the two weapons clashing like swords, both going off simultaneously. Pendergast seized the barrel of Esterhazy’s rifle with one hand and they struggled over it, Pendergast dropping his pistol in an attempt to wrest away Esterhazy’s weapon with both hands.

The mano a mano continued, all four hands on the same rifle, twisting and thrashing, each trying to shake the other off. Pendergast bent forward and sank his teeth into Esterhazy’s hand, ripping into the flesh. With a roar Esterhazy head-butted him, knocking the FBI agent back, and kicked him fiercely in his side. The clash brought both of them down onto the frost-split rocks again, their camouflage ripping and tearing.

Getting his hand on the trigger, yanking and twisting, Pendergast fired it again and again to empty the magazine. He let go and drove his fist into Esterhazy’s skull just as the man swung the rifle around, club-like, slamming Pendergast in the chest. Seizing the stock, Pendergast tried to wrench it free again but in a surprise move Esterhazy jerked the agent forward while delivering a savage kick to his face, almost breaking his nose in the process. Blood spurted everywhere and Pendergast fell back, shaking his head, trying to clear it as Esterhazy fell on top of him, slamming his face again with the rifle stock. Through the fog and blood he could see Esterhazy scrabbling fresh rounds out of his bag, shoving them into the rifle.

He kicked up the muzzle and threw himself sideways as a shot rang out, seized his own handgun from where he had dropped it, rolled and returned fire. But Esterhazy had already scrambled for cover behind the tor.

Taking advantage of the temporary lull, Pendergast leapt up and raced down the hill, turning to fire several times, keeping Esterhazy pinned down while he sprinted away. Reaching the bottom of the hill, he darted into the Mire, heading for a hollow, where he was quickly enveloped in a swirl of dense fog.

There he paused, surrounded by quaking mud. The ground under his feet shook strangely, like gelatin. He probed ahead with the toe of his boot, locating firmer ground, and headed deeper into the Foulmire, stepping from hillock to hillock, stone to stone, trying to keep clear of the sucking pools of quicksand while putting as much distance as possible between himself and Esterhazy. As he moved, he heard a series of shots from the direction of the tor, but they went wild; Esterhazy was firing at shadows.