Page 65 of Colton in the Wild
He skirted the rocky slope that was far too clear of cover for his comfort. He stayed, as Uncle Will put it, a couple of trees back from the open terrain. He wouldn’t assume his quarry hadn’t at least glimpsed him, but he would make it as difficult as he could for the guy to find him. Enough to get a bead on him, anyway.
He zeroed in on the spot the sound had come from. Caught a glimpse of metal. Rifle. A hand gripping it.
A left hand. Confirmation.
Spence double-checked his own rifle even though he knew it was ready; a round in the chamber and four in the magazine available to take its place. He’d be taking no chances with this guy, even if he wasn’t backcountry smart. The guy had gotten lucky once and it had nearly cost Hetty her life, and him the reason his own life had suddenly become so much more worth living.
And that thought reminded him that he now had a much larger vested interest in staying alive, so he reached for the walkie-talkie and clicked it. Three times.
Tell Dad to hurry.
Almost in that same moment, he heard another rustling up ahead. Wondered for a moment if his target had heard the radio. Decided he didn’t care. He was determined now; he was going to take this guy down. He wasn’t a big hunter, he never liked killing living creatures, but this was different. In so many ways, this creature had it coming, more than any wild animal who acted only on instincts it couldn’t ignore.
And maybe knowing he was now the pursued instead of the pursuer might rattle the guy enough that he’d make a wrong move, a misstep. And out here, that could be the end of you, in more ways than one.
Spence, knowing where the sound had come from, decided to shift his course slightly westward. If he came at him from that direction, the natural instinct for the hitman would be to change course to get farther away rather than to continue up and get closer by coming in from the side. If Spence could push the guy just far enough, what he knew and the killer likely did not was where he’d end up.
It took a few long, agonizing minutes to be sure it had worked, but then he heard another rustle. And—maybe, he couldn’t be sure, could only hope—a low sound that might have been a smothered curse.
Spence headed for his next goal, the large boulder just inside the tree line, the one he often joked would end up in his bathroom if it ever let go and rolled down the mountain. Because they were pretty much on a mountain now. While the formation was nowhere near the towering peaks that surrounded them, it was definitely bigger—and steeper—than just a foothill.
He crouched in the shelter of the rock, again tuning in to his surroundings with every sense. He saw and heard nothing. Smell wasn’t helping, either. He waited. And waited. Funny how he usually had all the patience in the word for this kind of thing, but now he was antsy as hell and wanted it over. Over and done, so he could get back to Hetty and they could start that new life.
Finally, driven by an urge he could no longer deny, he reached down and grabbed a piece of rock that had over time broken off the big boulder. He hefted it. It was only a little bigger than a baseball, but it weighed a lot more. It would have to do.
He straightened enough to be able to put some power behind it, then hurled the rock out toward where he would be if he hadn’t changed direction. But his attention never wavered from his best guess as to where his prey was; he had the rifle trained and ready. And the instant that rock landed with a thud even he could hear from here, a flash of movement proved him right.
He fired. With the ease and speed of long practice, he sent three rounds in quick succession. One where the intruder was now, one in the direction he thought the guy would jump, and one a step back toward where he’d been hiding.
Selection B.
He thought it with grim satisfaction as the man screamed and went down. Now, finally, the hitman was vulnerable, hit himself. Spence started forward, staying in a low crouch in case the guy was still functional. All he’d need was a trigger finger, after all.
Spence heard the scrambling as he neared the spot where he’d seen him. Obviously, silence was no longer an issue since they both knew the other was there. But concealment was, so he made his way from big tree to big tree, figuring that even if a bullet got through all that wood, it would be so slowed down it would only make a dent. That was his theory, anyway.
He readied himself to make the next move. But a sharp, different kind of scream froze him in place. When it was followed by a distinctive, tumbling sound, he risked a look toward the clearing he’d been edging the guy toward. Just in time to see him disappear downhill, rolling like Spence had always imagined that boulder would.
Toward his house.
Toward Hetty.
Without hesitation, he darted from his cover and headed down, sticking to the path along the edge of the rocks, the trail he knew so well. If the guy could somehow still manage to get a shot off, so be it, but he wasn’t about to let him get near Hetty again.
The moment he heard the metallic clatter of the man’s rifle—an old-model ArmaLite, he guessed from his brief glimpse as it skidded across the rocky terrain—he discarded all caution and scrambled as fast as he could. He suspected that wasn’t the only weapon a hitman would carry, but guessed whatever else he had would likely require closer range than the rifle. And he wasn’t about to let this jackass get close to Hetty again.
At the bottom of the slope there was a steep drop and he took it as he had before, down on one knee to slide while catching the bottom with his other foot and using the momentum to launch himself into a run. But a moment later, he was slowing because he’d seen the unmoving shape at the base of the rocks. And Spence breathed again, looking at the out-of-action shape, because he was within a few yards of his house.
The downed hitman groaned, so Spence knew he was still alive. He wasn’t sure if he was glad he hadn’t killed him, or sorry he hadn’t. Time for that later. He crept closer and smiled with satisfaction when he realized he’d hit the man’s left leg very close to the same spot as he had shot Hetty.
The man didn’t move, but Spence was still cautious as he stepped toward him, heeding his father’s long-ago advice to never assume. And then that same father appeared on his back deck, his own rifle at the ready. Spence waved him down.
“You got him,” Dad said when he got close.
“I started it, the mountain finished it for me.”
Dad grinned at him. “So you didn’t really need my help.”
“Yeah, I did,” Spence said, glancing toward the house where Hetty had now emerged onto the deck, looking wonderful, as she always did, to him.
