Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [2]
They were still too distant for a reliable shot. A good shot wasn’t good enough; one could never chance wounding an animal of this caliber. It had to be a certain kill.
He crept back down the side of the hill and rejoined Esterhazy. “He’s a thousand yards off—too far.”
“That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”
“He’s awfully sure of himself,” said Pendergast. “Since nobody hunts in the Foulmire, he’s not as alert as he should be. The wind’s in our faces, he’s moving away from us—I think we can chance an open stalk.”
Esterhazy shook his head. “There’s some treacherous-looking ground ahead.”
Pendergast pointed to a sandy area adjacent to their hiding spot, where the track of the stag could be seen. “We’ll follow his track. If anyone knows the way through the Mire, he does.”
Esterhazy held out a palm. “Lead the way.”
They unshipped their rifles and crept out from behind the tor, moving toward the stag. The animal was indeed distracted, focused on scenting the air coming from the north, paying little attention to what lay behind him. His snuffling and roaring covered the sounds of their approach.
They advanced with the utmost care, pausing whenever the animal hesitated or turned. Slowly, they began to overtake him. The stag continued to ramble deeper into the Mire, apparently following an airborne scent. They continued in utter silence, unable to speak, keeping low, their Highland camouflage perfectly adapted to the moorland environment. The trail of the stag followed almost invisible rivels of firmer ground, the path snaking among treacly pools, shivering morass, and grassy flats. Whether from the untrustworthy ground, the hunt, or some other reason, the tension in the air seemed to increase.
Gradually, they moved into shooting range: three hundred yards. The stag paused yet again, turning sideways, nosing the air. With the faintest of hand gestures, Pendergast indicated a halt and carefully sank into a prone position. Pulling his H&H .300 forward, he fitted the scope to his eye and carefully aimed the rifle. Esterhazy remained ten yards behind, crouching, as motionless as a rock.
Peering through the scope, Pendergast settled the crosshairs on a spot just forward the shoulder of the animal, took a breath, and began to squeeze the trigger.
As he did so, he felt the cold touch of steel against the back of his head.
“Sorry, old boy,” said Esterhazy. “Hold your rifle out with one hand and lay it down. Slow and easy.”
Pendergast laid down the rifle.
“Stand up. Slowly.”
Pendergast complied.
Esterhazy backed away, covering the FBI agent with his hunting rifle. He suddenly laughed, the harsh sound echoing over the moorlands. Out of the corner of his eye, Pendergast saw the stag startle and bound away, disappearing into the mists.
“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” said Esterhazy. “After a dozen years, it’s a bloody tragedy you didn’t leave well enough alone.”
Pendergast said nothing.
“You’re probably wondering what this is all about.”
“In fact, I am not,” said Pendergast, his voice flat.
“I’m the man you’ve been looking for: the unknown man at Project Aves. The one Charles Slade refused to name for you.”
No reaction.
“I’d give you a fuller explanation, but what’s the point? I’m sorry to do this. You realize it’s nothing personal.”
Still no reaction.
“Say your prayers, brother.”
Esterhazy raised the rifle, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 2
A FAINT CLICK SOUNDED IN THE DAMP AIR.
“Christ!” Esterhazy said through clenched teeth, shooting open the bolt, ejecting the bad round and slamming a new one in place.
Click.
In a flash Pendergast leapt to his feet, scooping up his rifle and leveling it at Esterhazy. “Your not-so-clever stratagem failed. I’ve suspected it since your