Page 67 of South of Nowhere

Time Elapsed from Initial Collapse: 9 Hours

Waylon Foley loved to hunt.

The kick of a rifle was a kind of sexual thing, though he never told anybody that.

He liked the sweet smell of Hoppe’s gun cleaner, the even-more-pleasant smell of the smoke from smokeless powder, the sun on the rich warm walnut, and the cold blue barrel of a Winchester or Remington or his own Savage.

The best part of all: He loved the way your target just dropped.

Alive, then not alive.

What a beautiful thing.

Presently Foley was in Hinowah, making his way through the brush, on the south hillside above the town.

He kept his eye on the command post, on the north hill, about three hundred yards away. He was careful that no one there saw him.

The kick of the recoil.

A pause.

Then down went your prey.

On the highway above the command post the limo did a careful three-point turn and vanished slowly. No one else was around and he crouched in bushes and removed his spotting scope from insidehis jacket, which was still soiled from where the asshole had cheated and dropped him to the ground that morning, which never would have happened in a fair fight.

Foley played the scope over the conference going on in the larger of the three tents.

He set the crosshairs on the very man responsible for his dirty garment, his aching shoulder and swollen nose. He could still taste the pungent tang of the blood.

Motorcycle Man…

There are two telescopes used in hunting. The one everybody who took game or owned a TV knew about was mounted to the top of the firearm. A telescopic sight, crosshairs and all that.

But the second—the one he now held—was just as important. It was known as a spotter scope. Military snipers didn’t operate alone. Killing at distance was a process, like a medical operation. You needed a nurse. The spotter used a scope like this on the job.

You had to know distance precisely. Down to the foot. And you needed to see how the wind was blowing around your target—dust going this way or that, grass waving.

That’s what this scope did—in addition to scanning for threats (you never used the rifle scope for that).

He winced once again, and gazed through the scope at the man responsible for his pain.

Foley could have taken him earlier. And he would have if the guy hadn’t gotten a phone call or text and used that as an excuse to run off like a scared boy.

He swung the scope to take in the levee, which was now a righteous waterfall.

Slowly eating itself to death.

Foley had his weapon with him, in a green, waterproof case. But now was not the time.

The distance was fine—three hundred and thirty-two yards.

But the wind from the damn storm…it was too unpredictable.

He’d have to wait. Find the man in a valley, less breeze, and maybe a little closer.

There was also the matter that at the present moment there were a half dozen law enforcers with weapons. Though a shot with a handgun from that distance was unlikely to be accurate, you could be killed by a wild shot just as easily as one aimed with perfect skill.

As he slowly made his way out of the nest, Waylon Foley decided there was another reason to wait. He’d learned over the years the longer you delayed satisfying your desire, the richer the act of achieving it was in the end. And this applied to a shot of whisky, a woman or a kill.

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