Always Time To Die

Chapter 60

CASTILLO RIDGE

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

A DOT OF BRIGHT RUBY LIGHT PUNCHED THROUGH THE FALLING SNOW AS THE sniper sighted in his scope. The gallons of water he'd poured on the blind curve were invisible now, a sheet of black ice frozen beneath a dusting of snow. If ice didn't send their vehicle caroming out and down several hundred feet to level land below, then it would be up to close work to finish the job. On the whole, he'd much prefer an accident. Fewer questions that way.

Headlights glowed along the road from the ranch house. They bobbed and bounced but made good progress. Though the narrow road was technically on private land, the county managed to pass a blade over it often enough to keep ranch traffic moving. The headlights came on at surprising speed. Obviously the driver belonged to the part of the American population that believed four-wheel drive could handle anything weather could dish out.

Live and learn.

Or die.

The sniper waited, invisible on the ridge, white on white, patient.

The small truck bored through the late-afternoon gloom, eating up the road. Ruts made for a bouncy ride, but there were so many ruts they were bound to grab the tires from time to time.

The sniper was counting on it.

As the vehicle approached the deadly curve, the sniper's finger slowly, slowly took up slack on the trigger.

The front tires of the truck hit icy ruts and lunged toward the dropoff. The driver fought it and was on the verge of regaining control when a red dot gleamed on the inside of the right front tire and snow-muffled thunder cracked. The tire collapsed, headlights bobbed and lurched.

The truck slid wildly on ice, then shot off the road and somersaulted into the gloom below.

The sniper waited, watching snow fall.

And waited.

When he was certain no one had seen the accident, he strapped on snowshoes and took a roundabout way down to the road and then on down the rest of the ridge to the wreck.

He found the man first. DOA, definitely. The fool hadn't worn a seat belt. The sniper continued on down to the wreck itself. The woman was still alive, dazed and bleeding, her face a mess against the shattered rime of glass that was all that remained of the passenger window. He sat on his heels, found her pulse, and sighed.

Not quite.

He took her chin in one hand, the side of her forehead in the other, and gently searched for just the right angle.

Her eyes opened, slowly focused on him in the gloom. "You," she said weakly. "But I killed them both for you… the Senator and Winifred… to keep the secret."

"Always a good idea."

There was a single snapping sound.

The sniper stood and glided away on snowshoes into the concealing veils of snow.