The Breach - Ghost Country - Deep Sky

she had across her mouth, Travis could hear her screams. His perch was perhaps a hundred fifty yards from the encampment, and seventy feet above.
    Seven hostiles. Two captives.
    The surreal fabric of the situation still enveloped Travis, as it had since the moment he’d found Mrs. Garner. Who the hell were these people? What was all of this about?
    Even when he focused past the disconnect, and forced himself to take stock of the circumstances he was up against, questions remained. Why had the hostiles chosen to remain here? How could they consider themselves safe less than three miles from the wreck of a 747 that had carried the First Lady of the United States? Not to mention whatever had been in the steel container. Why stay near the crash for even a single hour, much less three days? Mrs. Garner had said in her note that there was a reason for that, but hadn’t expanded upon it.
    Well, the plane hadn’t been found by any of the authorities who must be looking for it, including, presumably, the president. Somehow these guys had pulled that off—their confidence in their safety must stem from that. They hadn’t even posted a lookout. For now, it was enough to know that Mrs. Garner had been right: these guys were not expecting trouble.
    He could get them all from here. Easily. Skill was simply not a variable from this range and elevation, and with these weapons—he’d brought five M16s, their selectors set to full-auto. Anyone who could douse a flower bed with a garden hose could kill all nine people in that encampment from this spot, probably before firing the first two rifles dry. Certainly by the fifth.
    Yes, he could do that. He could do that right now and have it done with.
    But he wasn’t going to.
    In truth, he hadn’t squared with that part of Ellen Garner’s message, whatever the unmentioned stakes might be, but if even a scrap of the idea had lingered in his mind, it had vanished the moment he’d trained his binoculars upon the young woman on the torture table.
    He wasn’t going to kill her. He’d accrued enough of that brand of guilt for one lifetime.
    But he was going to kill.
    He continued watching String Mustache enjoy his work, while the young woman’s body spasmed in the binds, and he found the killer’s mindset coming back to him easily.
    He could do this.
     
    He just needed to get closer.
     
    VERSE IAN OCTOBER NIGHT IN 1992
     
    His footsteps are the only sound in the night, and they don’t carry far.
    For this time of year in Minneapolis, the day has been warm and wet, but in the past hour—the hour before midnight—a chill has moved in on the city, stirring wraiths of fog into the graveyard quiet of Cedar Street.
    This deep in the neighborhood, there are no streetlights. Some of those who carve out their lives here prefer it that way. Tonight, so does Travis Chase. It is dark enough that he presents neither shadow nor silhouette, and his shoes make only faint ticks on the broken pavement. The only things in the night sharp enough to sense his presence are those things wilder than himself—even as he thinks this, a dog chain rattles softly on a porch, somewhere in the fog to his left—but his business on Cedar Street at this hour doesn’t concern such things. His approach will not be detected by anyone that matters.
    The .32 is in his pocket, loaded with hollowpoints.
    Ahead of him the fog thins, and he sees the house. Emily Price’s house. The only light comes from the big living-room window, casting its shape out into the mist. He can picture the two of them inside, maybe sitting on the couch, holding each other close and saying little or nothing. When he thinks of that, Travis’s shame burns.
    He has no idea what will happen when he knocks on the door.

CHAPTER SIX
    Travis saw within minutes what it would take. A lot could go wrong, but he thought the advantage was his, even against these numbers.
    On the far side of the encampment, fifty feet beyond, the pines were dense. More than heavy enough to conceal him. He could reach that spot undetected if he traveled far enough along the valley on this side, low among the rocks, before crossing over and coming back.
    Fifty feet was close, and with surprise on his side he might do well to just start shooting. The first shot would be a free kill, maybe even the second. Then it’d be him against five, and confusion on their part might give him the edge for another kill or two, if he was fast enough.
    But the ifs would stack up