He glanced back over his shoulder. Nothing except the darkness looked back at him. He was twenty feet from the tree line. From there a five-minute walk through the woods. A car waiting, a fast drive. Before the police could set up their roadblocks. He liked this area. Lots of ground to cover and not nearly enough cops to do it properly.
He stopped, turned back.
Sirens, yes, but something else. Something unexpected.
His left hand slipped to his waistband.
“Another inch with the hand and you can get a good look at your intestines.”
The man’s hand stopped right where it was.
Puller did not step clear of the trees. He had no idea if the other man was alone. He kept his MP trained on the target.
“First, take the rifle by the muzzle and toss it away from you. Second, lie facedown with your hands interlocked behind your head, eyes closed, and your feet spread-eagled.”
The man set the rifle stock-first on the ground, gripped the muzzle, and threw the weapon. It landed six feet away, thudding to the ground and spraying up grass and dirt.
“First part done. Now execute step two,” Puller said.
“How’d you get ahead of me?” asked the man.
Puller didn’t like the question, but he liked even less the tone in which it was asked. Unhurried, earnestly curious, but seemingly unmindful of the consequences of being caught. His gaze swept the field in front of him. Was there a spotter out there? A backup team to ferry the sniper away?
“Lucky triangulation,” he said. “Worked to the logical conclusion and double-timed it there.”
“Never heard you.”
“That’s right. Why take out Dickie?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Lapua rounds aren’t that plentiful around here, I would bet.”
“You can walk away from this, Puller. Right now. Maybe you should.”
Puller liked this change in tactics even less. It was like the other man was holding the gun on him. Offering him a free walk.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“I’m sure you’ve already considered it. You won’t learn anything more from me. It’s not my job to do your job.”
“Eight people dead now. Must be a good reason.” Puller slid his finger to the trigger guard on the MP5. Once it ventured inside the guard he would fire.
“Must be.”
“You talk, there might be a deal.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You that loyal?”
“If that’s what you want to call it. I let you get to me. My fault. My responsibility.”
“Facedown. Last time I’ll ask.”
Puller lined up his shot. At this range the man was dead. He braced the MP against his right pec. With his left hand he toggled his forward M11 in a thirty-degree arc.
The man dropped to his knees. Then to his stomach. He started to interlock his fingers. But then his hand shot to his waist.
Puller used his M11 to pump one round into each of the man’s arms and then stepped to his left and behind a tree. His muzzle flash had given away his position. He had not gone for a kill shot because he didn’t have to. The man couldn’t have gotten off a clean shot at him. And now with his arms immobilized he wouldn’t be able to even point his gun at Puller. The man had gone for his weapon for perhaps two reasons.
First, he’d wanted Puller to kill him.
Puller had decided not to be so accommodating. He wanted a witness he could interrogate.
Second, he had wanted Puller to fire, revealing his position; hence Puller’s sidestep behind the tree.
He awaited incoming fire from another sector.
“Puller?”
“To your right.” He stepped out to show his location.
Cole and her deputies scuttled forward to join him around the dead men.
Puller knelt down and eased the sniper over. “Shine your light on his face.”
Cole did so.