“At this time all I can tell you is that she’s stable, but on life support. Only her higher power knows at this point.”
Jimmy sat down and hung his head.
“Are you a religious man, Mr. O’Leary?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, if you know any prayers that work, say them.” The doctor walked out, turning sideways to allow Winter and Susie to pass him. They saw the dejected look on O’Leary’s face.
“Any news?” Winter asked.
“It’s up to Anne now.”
“Are you Gordon Winter?” Saucier demanded.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to need you to guide us to the scene. I have SWAT mobilizing and helicopters to take us up there.”
Winter looked past Saucier’s shoulder at the darkening sky. “Tonight?”
“No, only an idiot would fly up there at night. We’ll go first thing in the morning.”
36
“A stroke of the sword that does not hit its target is the sword stroke of death; you reach over it to strike the winning blow.”
—Yagyū Munenori, The Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War
For the better part of the afternoon, Houston observed the shack and saw no sign of activity. Like him, Rosa would spend the night in concealment. While adjusting his equipment for the move, something caught his eye and he peered through his scope. A man clad in a green uniform came out of the woods carrying what was obviously Estes’s body and walked toward the cabin. There were patches on the shoulders of his sleeves and Houston was able to read them through his telescopic sight. He saw Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife embroidered on it. It was a game warden.
“Where the hell did he come from?” Houston whispered softly to no one.
He maintained his observation post until the warden had settled into the cabin. About a half hour later smoke drifted from the stovepipe chimney and it became evident that the warden was not leaving the island that night. Houston thought about the food that the warden was probably cooking and his stomach growled. He shook his head in frustration and hoped that the warden would leave the island in the morning because if he didn’t, Houston would have to look twice before he took a shot. The last thing he wanted to do was to shoot another law enforcement officer. His opponent, on the other hand, would have no such restriction.
Houston slowly made his way down the ridge. He paused at the edge of the clearing, hesitant to expose himself. It was dark, but he didn’t know if Rosa was equipped with night-vision goggles. Houston dropped onto his belly and crawled through the tall grass until he was within yards of the cabin. Vaulting to his feet, he covered the short distance and, without knocking, dashed into the cabin.
The warden sat at the small table, his service pistol disassembled before him as he cleaned it. The officer leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair. “What the—”
Houston aimed his rifle at the startled man. “Relax . . . I’m a cop.”
“State or local?”
“Boston PD.”
“Last I heard, Maine hasn’t been part of Massachusetts since eighteen twenty. Is that some new uniform that I haven’t heard of?”
“No.” Houston lowered his rifle and slid his hood back. “It’s a Ghillie suit.”
“Snipers wear them.”
“Yes, we do. I’m here to bring one down.”
Marsh picked up his chair and dropped into it. “Suppose you sit down and tell me what in the hell is going on.”
Houston looked toward the coffeepot warming on the wood stove. “You got anything worth eating?”
The warden stood once again. “I can throw something together for you.”
“Great, I’m starving.”
Marsh walked to the bunk and opened his pack. “I think I met some of your friends this afternoon.”
“Is Anne all right?”
“If you’re talking about the wounded woman cop, she was medevaced to Southern Maine Medical Center. Other than that I can’t tell you anything.”
“But, she’s alive?”
“She was when I saw her last.”
“Any of the others hurt?”
“Not that I could see.” Marsh placed a small black iron frying pan on the stove. “Beans okay?”
“Right now the south end of a north-bound skunk would be good.”
Marsh poured coffee into a blue metal cup. “I hope you like it black. I don’t have any cream and sugar. Now what about this sniper you’re after?”
“Have you heard about the sniper killings in Boston?”
“Of course. It’s been in all of the newspapers.”
“Anne, my partner, and I are the investigating officers. But there’s more to it than that.”
Marsh stood up, retrieved the frying pan from the stove and poured the beans into a metal mess kit. He slid the food in front of Houston. “My name is Marsh, Marvin Marsh. I’m the game warden for this district.”
Houston offered his hand. “Michael Houston.”
“Okay, Michael, tell me about it.”
Houston scooped a spoonful of beans into his mouth, chewed two or three times and swallowed. “You got radio communications?”
“Yeah, I can reach our regional headquarters in Gray. They can link us through to any other law enforcement agency in the state . . . or nation, for that matter.”
“You may want to do that—after I’m gone.”
“After you’re gone? What if I tell you to stay here?”
“It wouldn’t do you any good. The guy I’m hunting is a highly trained killer. He can hit a moving target at over a thousand meters and will kill you with no reservation. I need to be out in the bush if I’m going to get him.”
Sometime after midnight a series of squalls rolled across the island. Houston hunkered down beneath a large pine. Raindrops hit the ground, popping loudly when they hit dead leaves and sediment on the forest floor. The noise was further amplified by the primordial darkness. Knowing that the moisture would make movement quieter was small consolation for the discomfort of being soaked. Shivering and wishing for a hot shower and warm bed, Houston wistfully recalled the warmth of the cabin and shook his head to clear it of the distracting thoughts.
Thoughts of Anne momentarily distracted him from his miserable state. Marsh had used his radio to get an update, but all they were able to learn was that she had come out of surgery alive. However, she was still listed as critical. Houston muttered a short prayer asking God to intervene and save Anne’s life. His thoughts shifted in a direction he didn’t like, a course he had been ignoring since he watched the boat carrying her damaged body disappear from sight: what was he going to do without her? He cradled his rifle in his arms, taking care to keep its working parts out of the rain. Tomorrow, one way or the other, this ends.
His eyes grew heavy and without being aware of it, he dozed.
Houston woke to the sound of crows cawing. He opened his eyes and he tried to ignore the burning sensation in his eyes—an obvious symptom that the lack of good sleep was bringing on fatigue. Water droplets fell from leaves making loud pops when they hit the sediment and dead foliage that littered the forest floor. The wind had calmed after the frontal passage and he heard birds calling and the explosive sounds of squirrels as they foraged for food. Finally, hearing no alien noises, he stretched.
Houston drank some water and realized he was hungry again. He needed food. The easy alternative would be to go to the cabin and join Marsh for breakfast—but the easy alternative was not always the smartest one. It would be better to eat off the land.
He left the protection of the woods, bound for the stream. There might be berries along its banks. They were not his food of choice, but would have to do.
Despite the effects of numbing fatigue, Houston felt more alive than he had for years. The three-day ordeal was already toughening him. His stomach seemed flatter and harder and his wind was much stronger. The fatigue that had caused his legs to cramp two days before was
gone. For the first time since he had set out on his quest, he felt capable of doing what he had to do.
Marsh left the cabin at first light. He would give Houston half the day and then if he hadn’t found his quarry, he would bring in reinforcements. He arched his back and felt the knots and kinks of sleeping on the narrow, thin mattress loosen. Following police procedure, he checked his sidearm to ensure it was in good working condition and started for the door. The dead woman’s assault rifle leaned against the wall and he picked it up. It might come in handy.
Not wanting to stay at the cabin where he would be an easy target, Marsh followed a trail leading to the top of the ridge. The ridge was covered with hardwood trees beechnut and oak predominated with a healthy maple and evergreen population. The ridge would be ideal habitat for the diminishing whitetail deer population. Who owned the island? Would they consider making it a game sanctuary? He turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand and decided to climb to the top of the ridge for a better view of the surrounding forest. Halfway to the top he heard the first shot.
Houston squatted in the forest, studying the stream. His eyes methodically surveyed the area as far as he could see. The sound of water cascading down the side of the ridge enticed him. His mouth was pasty with thirst and his stomach rumbled. The craving urged him to rush forward, to drink until he was ready to burst. However, his resurrected discipline made him cautious. His quarry was not stupid; he, too, would know that streams were magnets, attracting animals and men alike. To a sniper, a stream was analogous to a kill zone.
Houston crouched and duck walked through the trees, following a course that was anything but straight. As much as possible, he avoided the dead foliage that littered the ground, using trees and bushes for cover. The ground in this section was littered with layers of dead pine and fir needles that made movement easier and much quieter. He found a pine whose boughs hung low to the ground and over the stream. He dropped to his stomach and crawled to the water.
Pushing aside debris from the trees, he lowered his face to the stream and drank. The cool water tasted faintly of pinesap; still, given the situation, it was the best water he had ever drunk. His thirst abated, he sat back on his haunches. Now, he needed something to eat.
Movement up the ridge caught his eye and he dove to the side as a bullet thudded into the pine tree. He rolled behind an exposed tree root and scanned the area through his scope. Seeing nothing, he decided to go on the offensive. He gathered himself and ran across the shallow stream into a stand of brush on the opposite shore. Another shot rang out and he dove behind some dead fall and fired an answering shot in the direction of the last one. Houston crouched, considering his situation. What he needed now was mobility, not stealth. Houston removed the cumbersome Ghillie suit. He worked the bolt and replaced the round he had fired, poised himself as he gathered courage and then rushed up the incline.
Five minutes of frenetic scrambling had him squatting in the place from which Rosa had fired at him. There were scuffmarks on the ground and he found two ejected cartridges. He wanted to end this now, for the last time. It was time to flush Rosa out.
Houston tensed and then dashed through small bushes and trees, knocking them out of his way with his left arm. He cut left along the face of a small outcropping when his enemy stood up to his right.
Houston almost panicked and blew it. However, he quickly got himself under control. He took a quick half turn, raising his rifle for a shot, but before he could cradle the weapon in his shoulder, a tremendous force hit him, followed by a loud crack.
The shot came from Marsh’s left, and he changed his course in that direction. He held the M-16 in both hands, ready to bring it into action. He struggled to maintain his balance while descending through the dense brush and deadfall. The rain the night before had soaked the foliage and the fallen leaf sediment of past season, making walking treacherous and traction tenuous. His feet whipped out from under him and he tried to keep the rifle free of dirt by holding it over his head as he landed on his left hip and slid down the slope. He smashed through a small stump that was in an advanced state of decay. The old tree butt exploded in a cloud of soft rotten wood and slowed his descent enough that he could brace his feet and use them as brakes. He lay still for several seconds, listening to determine if his fall had attracted any unwanted attention. After several moments, he felt the chill of wet leaves and moist dirt soaking through his uniform and he sat up. Other than the sounds native to the woods, everything seemed quiet. Taking care not let the rifle come in contact with the ground, he struggled against the slippery slope and gravity to regain his feet. Back on his feet, Marsh checked his weapons to ensure they had not gotten fouled during his uncontrolled descent. Satisfied all was in order, he stood still and listened for the telltale sounds of human movement.
The bullet hit Houston when he was a quarter into his turn, most likely saving his life. If the bullet had hit him square, it would have severed his spinal cord. Instead, the round slammed into his left shoulder and exited just below his left shoulder blade. He fell to the side and tumbled through dead foliage and brush. He rolled down the ridge.
Rosa saw Houston spin and fall from sight as the bullet’s impact drove him back and he lost footing. It was all Rosa could do to refrain from shouting in victorious excitement. He watched Houston roll down the slope and started after him. This was one kill he wanted to verify personally.
He stopped about twenty meters down the slope and scanned the area through his telescopic sight. He saw Houston scrambling for cover behind a large fallen beech tree and fired.
The loop sling did its job as Houston tumbled down the steep incline; the rifle stayed in his hands the whole way. He slammed into something hard and unyielding and was dazed. He opened his eyes and saw he had hit an old downed tree. He scrambled under it a second before a bullet slammed into the rotting wood, inches above his head. He spun around on his stomach and heard the dull thud of yet another bullet crashing into the dead tree followed by the sharp bark of Rosa’s rifle.
Pain lanced through Houston when he tried to bring his rifle to bear on the ridge. Unlike the rifle, the telescopic sight had not survived the tumble down the ridge. It would not have helped him if it had. His hands shook like an earthquake measuring seven on the Richter scale. He gritted his teeth and realized he was going to have to shoot the rifle without the benefit of sights. One of the modifications made to the Remington 700 by the Marine Corps was the removal of the M40A3’s rear sight and front sight blade. He studied his hands and hoped he could control the shaking that his adrenaline rush, brought on by stress and fear, caused; failure to do so would be fatal.
Even though the bullet had hit him hard, at first he felt no pain. Now that the shock of the full metal-jacketed projectile passing through him was wearing off, pain took over and he knew he was in bad shape. He lay under the fallen tree and felt as if a hockey player had collided with him at full speed. Suddenly, his vision blurred and he felt warm wetness spreading across his chest and down his back as well. Houston knew, without seeing it, that his wound was severe.
He hoped Rosa would want to finish him up close and come looking for him, even if it were only to gloat. The smart thing for Rosa to do would be to stay hidden and let Houston bleed out. That is what a trained, disciplined sniper would do. His only hope was that Rosa’s hatred was greater than his discipline
Houston saw movement and knew he was lucky. Rosa wanted to revel in his victory so badly that he cast aside his training and was coming to count coup. Rosa would want him to live long enough to taunt him.
Houston fought off a blackout. He realized that in his confined shelter, there was not enough space to allow him to use the rifle. If anything, it would get in the way and he needed to get rid of it. The last thing he wanted was to have the useless weapon interfere with what little movement there was. He ground his teeth to keep from grunting and groaning with pain while sliding the sling off his left arm, all the time watching the ridge. The ter
rain and everything in it was a blurry mishmash, almost like a modern painting in which the artist intermixed hundreds of colors into an explosive blob with no definite borders. Once again, something moved—this time descending the slope. He would not be able to testify in court that it was Rosa; but only a human being would be walking upright as it threaded a circuitous path down the incline. Pushing his rifle out of the way, Houston freed the Glock from its holster, pointed it up range and waited.
Rosa was good. His descent was almost soundless, which did not surprise Houston. After all, several times Rosa had gotten on top of him without making a sound.
He saw Rosa appear, standing with the sun in his face—a big mistake. Houston saw Rosa’s shape squat down and check the ground for blood sign. After several seconds, he stood up and looked down the slope. Houston guessed he was about twenty-five meters from his hiding place, still too far for an accurate pistol shot. However, he was weakening fast and needed Rosa close, real close. He was losing a lot of blood and he knew he would only have one chance—he had better make it good.
Marsh saw an armed figure appear out of the brush and walk slowly down the incline. The gunman wore a Ghillie suit similar to the one Houston had worn the previous night. The suit was camouflaged with bits of flora interspersed throughout it. The figure looked like a pile of leaves with legs. When the gunman raised his rifle to his shoulder, Marsh took a shooting stance and yelled, “Stop right there!”
The rifle spun toward him . . .
Houston started to sweat, yet he felt cold. He did not know how much longer he would remain conscious, “Come on, you sonuvabitch—” he whispered.
Rosa started forward, cutting the distance in half, still moving cautiously. He followed the signs of Houston’s slide and after what seemed an eternity Houston saw his feet outside of his shelter.
“Mikey, are you in there?”
Sniper Page 28