Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [55]
I cracked open the rifle case. Assembly, even under the cover of darkness, was quick. Once I snapped on the scope, I held the rifle by my side and jogged up to the hole in the fence line.
As I dashed across the field, my internal focus was absolute. I was one with the night—my breathing, my gun, my mission. This was my own personal nirvana.
I crouched by the flat rock with a bird’s-eye view of the front of the house. I loaded the blue-tipped bullet, a .338 Lapua incendiary round I’d been saving for a special occasion. I dinked with the night-vision scope, gauging the target with my left eye. I tweaked the viewfinder again until I had the perfect angle for the front window.
Aim.
Breathe.
Fire.
Mental prep done, I was ready for the real deal.
One shot. Four hundred yards out. Piece of cake. I could do this with one arm tied behind my back. I could do this even with my left eye.
Finger on the trigger.
Eye on the target.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
I fired.
Click.
The whomp, whomp, whomp as the fiery gas expanded from room to room echoed back to me was followed by . . . BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
A blast of heat rushed across me as the house disgorged a ball of fire. Beautiful and grotesque. A red-orange orb, laced with roiling black clouds. I hadn’t heard glass breaking, although I could see jagged pieces littering the ground like dirty ice. The windows were gaping holes, eerie open mouths, screaming in shock. The entire front of the house had blown outward. Pieces of lumber scattered the yard like a giant’s game of pickup sticks. Chunks of plaster smoked, and tufts of insulation fell.
I grinned. “Thar she blows, matey.”
Flames licked the walls with hungry red tongues.
The roof ? Poof.
This house was completely uninhabitable.
No guilt or pride surfaced as I ejected the spent shell casing and shoved it in my pocket. Time to retreat, not gloat. I ran low to the ground, to the break in the fence. I ducked through the barbed wire and heard the sputtering engine of the ATV beneath the cacophony of crackling wood. After breaking my rifle down and fitting the pieces back in the case, I checked my watch.
Mission accomplished in under thirty-four minutes.
Now the real race began.
TWELVE
Nervous sweat plastered my hair to my face, my neck, and coated my scalp. In my room I shoved the gun case back in the closet. I ditched the ninja clothes at the bottom of the laundry basket and slipped back into my pajamas. I brought the covers under my chin, too wired to sleep.
I was half surprised I’d made it back to the house before the phone rang. Best-case scenario? No one reported the fire until it’d burned the house to the ground. The neighboring property belonged to the LifeLite religious group, and they hadn’t volunteered to help when we’d had a fire on our ranch last summer, so I expected they’d turn a blind eye now.
My main concern was the volunteer firemen called to the scene to risk life and limb to save the structure I’d torched.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. Just when I believed the fire would burn unattended, a knock sounded on my bedroom door.
Talk about jumping like a scalded cat. I didn’t answer, just waited for the next knock.
“Mercy?” Jake said, a little louder. “Phone.”
I opened the door. “Who is it?”
“Wouldn’t say.”
Snatching the cordless from his hand, I entered the living room. “This is Mercy Gunderson. Who’s calling me at three o’clock in the goddamn morning?”
“Clayton Black with the Eagle River Volunteer Fire Department. There’s been an explosion at the old Newsome house.”
“An explosion?” I repeated.
“Where? What’s going on?” Hope demanded behind me.
“Something at the Newsome house,” I said, turning my back on her. “What happened?”
“We’re not sure. Looks like a gas leak. We wanted to let you know we’re doing all we can to save the house—”
“Forget about saving the house. There’s nothing in it. Keep the firefighters safe.”
“But the structure—”
“Might as well collapse, if it’s as bad