Mason watched the gun barrel of the Ruger freeze, as Nathan grew into his weapon. Mason had seen this before—when he hunted with friends who were far better sportsmen than he was. It was an eerie thing that he didn’t quite understand. Your weapon becomes part of you just before the gun fires, almost by itself.

Mason waited for the booming report of the long gun.

Not a breath of wind. A clean target. A clear backdrop.

Shoot, shoot, shoot! was Mason’s silent message.

But instead of the crack of a rifle shot he heard a sigh. Nathan lowered his head. “I can’t.”

“Gimme the fucking gun.”

“No, Mason. Come on.”

But the expression in the senior deputy’s eyes silenced the marksman and he handed over the rifle and rolled aside.

“How many in the clip?” Mason snapped.

“I—”

“How many rounds in the clip?” Mason said as he dropped to his belly and took up a position identical to his colleague’s a moment before.

“Five. But nothing personal, Mason, you ain’t the best rifle shot in the world and there’re three innocents in the field of target and if you …” But his voice faded. There was only one place for this sentence to go and Nathan didn’t want to accompany it there.

True, Mason knew, he wasn’t the best shot in the world. But he’d killed a hundred deer. And he’d fired high scores on the state police range in Raleigh. Besides, good shot or bad, Mason knew that the Insect Boy had to die and had to die now.

He too breathed steadily, curled his finger around the

ribbed trigger. And found that Nathan had been lying; he’d never unsafetied the rifle. Mason now angrily pushed the button and started controlling his breathing once more.

In, out

He rested the crosshairs on the boy’s face.

The redhead moved closer to Garrett and for a moment her shoulder was in the line of fire.

Jesus my Lord, you are making it difficult, lady. She swayed back out of view. Then her neck appeared in the center of the scope. She swayed to the left but remained close to the center of the crosshairs.

Breathe, breathe.

Mason, ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking far more than they ought to, concentrated on the blotchy face of his target.

Lowered the crosshairs to Garrett’s chest.

The redhead cop swayed once more into the line of fire. Then she eased out again.

He knew he should squeeze the trigger gently. But, as so often in his life, anger took over and made the decision for him. He pulled the sliver of metal with a jerk.

… chapter sixteen

Behind Garrett a plug of dirt shot into the air and he slapped his hand to his ear, where he, like Sachs, had felt the zip of a bullet streak past.