Betrayal

Frederick Johnson squinted through a scope mounted atop a Remington 783. The crosshairs wavered over a red-bearded man throttling a black Ford Explorer toward him on a dirt driveway wild as a cat escaping a bath. Out here in farm country with no other cars in view, a man could drive that way, Frederick supposed. A quarter mile of lush soybeans stretched between him and Red Man. A mist hovered a few feet above the leafy green carpet, the fog uncommon in June. The low angle of the early morning sun blazed it with gilded brilliance.

He shrugged off a cold shiver that crept up his neck. Sweat beaded on the bald spot atop his head and trickled down unshaven cheeks, dripping onto his blue jeans. Ever since he'd turned forty, he'd sweat just reading the paper.

The vehicle sped toward the end of the long driveway. "Brake ... brake," Frederick whispered as the Explorer jerked to either side of the path, dodging potholes. A dust trail rose behind it and melded with the fog. The way this guy drove, the only chance he'd have of a clear shot would be when the vehicle stopped at the end of the lane.

"Five hundred meters," his spotter murmured. "This guy drives like a maniac." Wendy was crouched beside him in the hunting hide, shrouding her eyes behind rangefinder binoculars. Shiny, jet-black hair hung in a ponytail. Her bare arms were skinny as hell. Not the anorexic, lingerie-model brand. More like the steel cable, personal trainer, trying to prove women-can-do-anything-a-man-can-do- but-better kind of thin. Yet she'd been a quick study, even for a girl. And could think on her feet. On a prior job they'd been trailing their mark on foot when he'd made an unexpected turn. She'd choked him out with bare hands. Maybe he'd have to change his attitude about hit men being an all-male club. Hit person? Nah. "Three hundred fifty," she murmured.

Frederick kept the crosshairs over Red Man, then reached long fingers and twisted the elevation knob two clicks, zeroing the scope at two hundred meters, the end of the drive. The Remington was chambered in .243, a hyperfast, flat-firing round. He'd chosen ammo with heavier 115-grain bullets since the projectile would pass through windshield glass. The weightier shot would decrease deflection.

A wisp of haze, a specter's arm, reached from the foggy floor and floated across the scope's field of view. Red Man twisted the wheel, and the vehicle veered almost completely off the drive. Frederick chased him with the crosshairs. The Explorer wasn't slowing. "Brake, damn it!" At the end of the drive the SUV slid and accelerated onto the main road with a chirp of rubber. The speeding engine sang over the field, and a flock of crows exploded into the air from beneath the fog blanket.

"Shit!" he huffed, raising his head from the rifle as the vehicle raced away.

"Why didn't you take the shot?"

He lifted the bolt handle and yanked it back. The ejected round flew toward Wendy's head, and she snatched it from the air like a striking cobra. "No clear chance. I'm good, but no sniper. Even the best would have a hard time hitting a moving target like that. Plus, his wife wasn't with him."

She dropped the rangefinder so that it hung from her neck, resting between undersized breasts. "Worth the risk, though."

How much should he tell her? This was only their third job together. Still, tell her too little and it could bite him in the ass if she made a stupid move. "Red Man, and even his wife, isn't a target you take a risk on. They've been contracted before. Didn't turn out so well for those guys."

Wendy crossed her arms and leaned back, sitting atop an overturned five-gallon bucket against the plywood wall.

OK. Should have told her. He gripped the rifle barrel and lowered the stock to the floor. "Yeah, we're getting a huge payout for this. But I got no idea from who. Never do. But the instructions were written in broken English. Meaning it could be from an international business, or some government that can't reach here. This could be our break into the big leagues. But that means big risk. Every kill needs to be a sure thing. Double so on this guy. We wound him, and all the sudden we're the ones with a target on our backs. I don't know the whole story, but we ain't the first team that's tried to take him. And we only get paid if both are dead." He pressed the magazine latch, and it dropped into his glove. "And watching him these last few days ... the bulge under the shoulder of whatever he wears. The way he drives five different routes to work. The way he cuts his eyes. Hell, just the way he carries himself. This guy's a predator. He ain't prey." Which troubled him. Frederick had skills, but he was no heavy hitter. Not yet. Why'd he been contracted? Was his team the only one working this job? Should he be looking over his own shoulder?

Wendy crossed her legs. Her tan calves were knotted rope. "Typical alpha male. I've taken his type before."

Frederick blew a breath. "Maybe. But if you want to stay alive, never take potshots."

"What're our options, then?"

Heat radiated from the wall behind her. Six o'clock in the morning and the rising sun was already warming the cramped space. The humid fragrance of decomposing timber filled the hut. They needed to get out of the field before anyone spied them. Deer season was long past. But still, no one raised an eyebrow at a man with a bolt action in rural Virginia, no matter what time of year. Likely just a farmer with a kill permit protecting his crop. And when they'd spy Wendy next to him, all suspicions would vanish. Only a guy teaching his girlfriend how to shoot. How quaint. That's why he'd chosen her. Couples were invisible.

"We could plant a bomb at the end of his driveway. But I don't know how to make an IED. There's a guy who can, but I don't want him involved on this one. And we can't get to Red Man at home. Too risky." They'd driven by his long driveway several times. Vehicle sensors flanked it, which meant more security up the way. A $250 frequency identifier showed surveillance system emissions from the house at 433MHz all the way up to 5GHz, plus some lower-frequency stuff on military bands. "And we can't get him at work. It's Langley. Plus, he drives as if he knows someone's after him. She's almost as bad."

Wendy squeezed her elbows and rolled her neck. "Options?"

He stood and ducked his head to keep from smacking pine branches stretched across the close box as a ceiling. His tall frame towered over the tiny woman. He pulled a worn Baltimore Ravens ball cap over thin brown hair. Lifting an olive drab cloth that covered a narrow exit, he stepped down atop a wooden ladder rung and stopped. "We wait till he's out of his routine. Away from here."

"How long's that going to take?"

How much to tell her? Two can keep a secret only if one of them is dead. Nah. She knew enough at this point. He managed a smile. "I know a way to speed things up."

* * *

"So, you shot your wife?" the therapist asked, as if still confused who had actually been killed.

Tony "Red" Harmon leaned back in a low, hard, black vinyl chair. He'd explained it to the woman three times already. It wasn't that difficult to understand. Didn't she have five college degrees? He scratched his tight, curly copper beard. "I didn't shoot my wife. I only thought it was her." Which was the truth. And he'd done it trying to save the woman's life. "So,...