The Coffin Dancer

talking to herself.
    No, not herself. She was talking into a headset. The way she’d listen, then nod, it seemed that she was taking orders from someone.
    Who? he wondered.
    Someone who’d figured out that I’m here, Stephen thought.
    Someone looking for me.
    Someone who can watch me through windows and disappear instantly. Who can move through walls and holes and tiny cracks to sneak up and find me.
    A chill down his back—he actually shivered—and for a moment the reticles of the telescope danced away from the redheaded cop and he lost acquisition of a target completely.
    What the fuck was that, Soldier?
    Sir, I don’t know, sir.
    When he reacquired the redhead he saw how bad things were. She was pointing right at the painting contractor’s van he’d just stolen. It was parked about two hundred feet from him, in a small parking lot reserved for construction trucks.
    Whoever the redhead was talking to had found the painter’s body and discovered how he’d gotten onto the airport grounds.
    The worm moved closer. He felt its shadow, its cold slime.
    The cringey feeling. Worms crawling up his legs . . . worms crawling down his neck . . .
    What should I do? he wondered.
    One chance . . . one shot . . .
    They’re so close, the Wife and the Friend. He could finish everything right now. Five seconds was all it would take. Maybe those were their outlines he could see in the window. That shadowy form. Or that one . . . But Stephen knew that if he fired through the glass, everyone would drop to the floor. If he didn’t kill the Wife with the first shot, he’d ruin the chance.
    I need her outside. I need to draw them out of cover into the kill zone. I can’t miss there.
    He had no time. No time! Think!
    If you want a doe, endanger the fawn.
    Stephen began breathing slowly. In, out, in, out. He drew his target. Began applying pressure, imperceptible, to the trigger. The Model 40 fired.
    The ka-boom rolled over the field and all the cops hit the ground, drawing their weapons.
    Another shot, and a second puff of smoke flew from the tail-mounted engine of the silver jet in the hangar.
    The redheaded cop, her own gun in hand, was crouching, scanning for location. She glanced at the two smoking holes in the skin of the plane, then looked out over the field once more, pointing a stubby Glock out in front of her.
    Take her out?
    Yes? No?
    Negative, Soldier. Stay fixed on your target.
    He fired again. The puff of explosion tore another tiny chunk out of the side of the airplane.
    Calm. Another shot. The kick in the shoulder, the sweet smell of the burnt powder. A windshield in the cockpit exploded.
    This was the shot that did it.
    Suddenly there she was—the Wife—forcing her way through the office door, grappling with the young blond cop who tried to hold her back.
    No target yet. Keep her coming.
    Squeeze. Another bullet tore through the engine.
    The Wife, her face horrified, broke free and ran down the stairs toward the hangar to close the doors, to protect her child.
    Reload.
    He laid the reticles on her chest as she stepped to the ground and started to run.
    Full target lead of four inches, Stephen calculated automatically. He moved the gun ahead of her and squeezed the trigger. It fired just as the blond cop tackled her and they went down below a slight dip in the earth. A miss. And they had just enough cover to keep him from skimming slugs into their backs.
    They’re moving in, Soldier. They’re flanking you.
    Yessir, understood.
    Stephen glanced over the runways. Other police had appeared. They were crawling toward their cars. One car was speeding directly toward him, only fifty yards away. Stephen used one shot to take out the engine block. Steam spraying from the front end, the car eased to a stop.
    Stay calm, he told himself.
    We’re prepared to evacuate. We just need one clear shot.
    He heard several fast pistol shots. He looked back at the redhead. She was in a competition combat stance, pointing the stubby pistol in his direction, looking for his muzzle flash. The sound of the shot wouldn’t do her any good, of course; it was why he never bothered with silencers. Loud noises are as hard to pinpoint as soft ones.
    The redheaded cop was standing tall, squinting as she gazed.
    Stephen closed the bolt of the Model 40.

    Amelia Sachs saw a faint glimmer and she knew where the Coffin Dancer was.
    In a small grove of trees about three hundred yards away. His telescopic sight caught the