Page 86 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

They were for Puck, though. He was really enjoying himself.

There was no wind and there was no humidity.

Perfect shooting conditions. He’d spent the early hours fantasising about how he could kill Poe’s mongrel first. Blow his stupid yappy head clean off his shoulders.

Or maybe put one in his hind quarters. It would be days before Poe was discovered, plenty of time for the spaniel to die horribly.

But he hadn’t been able to square that particular circle.

He’d watched Poe grab Matilda on the roof.

The guy had reflexes. Serious reflexes. The only way he’d be able to get them both would be to fire twice, as close to simultaneous as possible.

Give Stig no chance of diving back into his dump.

But it was a difficult shot. A risky shot.

And he didn’t take risks. It was why he would never be caught.

So, as fun as it was to fantasise about Poe dying next to his fatally wounded dog, it was safer to stick to the plan.

Shoot Poe in the gut then sit back and watch him die.

Puck hoped it would take at least forty-eight hours.

Ample time for the dog to get hungry enough to eat Poe’s fingers.

He didn’t know if springer spaniels did that – German shepherds were known for it – but a boy could dream.

Ezekiel Puck loved the superstition of ‘three on a match’. Loved the fatalism. He wasn’t sure if it was true, thought it probably wasn’t, but so what? Soldiers believed it. That was all that mattered.

Apparently, during the Crimean War, the first war in which optical sights were fitted to rifles, soldiers believed that the third man to light his Turkish cigarette from the same match would be shot by a sniper.

The theory was that the sniper would see the flare of the match, and by the time the third soldier put his head to the flame, the sniper would be ready to fire. One-two-three-bang.

Then it happened.

The first light. Poe’s bedside lamp coming on.

He was awake. Puck didn’t move, didn’t check his watch. He thought it was about half past five. It certainly wasn’t later as it was still dark. Poe’s stupid dog began to bark. Excited. Across the silent Shap Fell, the sound carried all the way to Puck’s expectant ears.

He steadied his breathing. Slowed it down. He moved his finger inside the trigger guard. Otherwise, he stayed perfectly still. He was good at staying still. Ever since he was a child, he’d preferred watching people to talking to people.

There would be a minute or so while Poe got up, threw on a pair of shorts and a tatty T-shirt.

He’d then lumber downstairs and turn on the cottage’s main light.

It was actually closer to two minutes. He must have needed the bathroom.

Even though Poe was younger than he was, Puck thought of it as an old man’s bladder.

And again, right on cue, the downstairs light came on.

The second light.

Puck gently squeezed the trigger, took up most of the three and a half pounds of pressure. He took in a deep breath, let out half of it then held it. If the chest rose and fell, so would the barrel. A millimetre at his end would be inches at Poe’s. Literally the difference between life and death.

The next light, the unlucky third light, would be Poe opening the door to let out his dog. The light would spill across the wiry grass of Shap Fell like a beacon and Poe would be framed in the doorway. A shot Puck couldn’t miss.

He waited.

And he waited.

But the door didn’t open.

The dog kept barking, but Poe stayed inside.

Something was wrong.

And then Ezekiel Puck realised he’d made a terrible mistake.