Page 121 of Saxon

Before I close the hatch, I meet Terra's eyes in the rearview mirror. "See you soon, hot stuff."

"See you soon, big boy." She gives me a wink and an air kiss. A grin that doesn't quite meet her eyes.

I close the trunk. Sigh. Give myself one more moment to swallow past the cold hard welt in my gut that seems to have migrated north to a position near my Adam’s apple.

I orient myself based on the gravel road, and head parallel to it in the trees. The park is an old one, used for county fairs a few times a year and little else except the occasional hiker, dog-walker, and drone- or remote-controlled airplane enthusiast. It's not much but a big open field surrounded by a dense perimeter of trees—an old-growth forest protected by the park's status. I make a circuit of the field, first. Close, just inside the tree line, stopping, looking, listening. No signs of anything unusual. Near where the gravel road opens out from the forest into the field a small dirt parking lot is marking the trailhead—there are several miles of maintained trails running through the woods in various marked loops, all beginning and ending at the same trailhead. Beyond, in the overgrown field, knee-high grass waves in a slow post-dawn breeze, beaded with diamonds of dew.

Tricky terrain for an ambush—I'd assumed the field would be mowed, but it's not, and the tall grass poses an obstacle for finding a good spot to get the shots off without being spotted. There's no high ground—no hills. Everything is flat. Climbing a tree is out because I won't be able to get down fast enough after I've made the shots.

The only reason this plan even has a chance of working is because Jean-Paul has a habit of making you wait for him when you're meeting with him. He enters on his time, not yours. So it won't be unusual, in Jarrod's mind, for him to show up and have to wait for Jean-Paul to make his entrance. He'll be looking for a helo, I’d guess.

I make another circuit of the field, looking for a vantage point. And continue to find nothing. Anywhere I could post up, they'd spot me after my first shot, and if I'm prone or kneeling, the grass is in the way.

Fuck.

"Three incoming," Terra's voice murmurs in my ear. "Yukons. Tinted windows, so I can't see how many in each."

"Heard," I murmur back. "Fuck," I breathe.

"Fuck? Why fuck?"

"No good spots for the rifle. Too flat, grass is too high."

"Pivot. New plan. Fast. Something they won't expect, even after the shooting starts."

God, I'm out of practice. "Roger."

"Roger Roger." She snickers.

"Terra."

"Sorry, sorry. Star Wars joke."

I sprint flat-out for the trailhead, cutting through the corner of the field—make it to a trail, one running parallel to the field. It cuts away, the bastard, and I duck off the trail and through the trees, keeping the field on my left. My lungs burn, but I keep going.

"They should be visible soon."

"Got it," I gasp.

I break out onto another trail, and this one leads directly to the trailhead. Bingo. I slow to a trot, and then a walk, focusing on slowing my breathing. Spin, assessing.

There.

A fallen tree just off the trail, with a clear line of sight to the parking area. Scramble behind it, toss the rifle aside—too close for that, not even fifty yards. Lay prone, MP5 resting on the tree trunk, red dot optic against my cheek. It's not a scope—it doesn't magnify, only provides the red dot for aiming.

I hear vehicles after less than thirty seconds—I'm still breathing hard, but I'm not gagging for breath anymore. I'm just hot, sweaty, and jangling with nervous energy.

Don't kill. Don't kill. Don't kill.

The three black SUVs park in a line, one after the other. Tinted windows. They idle, engines on.

"Saxon? You see them?"

"Targets in sight. Radio silence." I whisper it, even though they're dozens of yards away, and inside motor vehicles.

Not yet. Let them get settled. Complacent.

Fuck, the waiting is hard.