by Don P. Bick
Chapter 2
Ragnor moans, and I glance toward the woods, searching for movement within the tangle of dense branches. There is nothing – but I know the sniper is in there, patient, waiting for his next opportunity.
“Hang in there,” I urge. I crawl my way around an outcropping to the left, then tuck behind the safety of its rock face. I draw a breath and examine the open clearing that holds Ragnor’s injured body.
Blood oozes from the wound. The sniper has a steady hand. His shot has gone clean through Ragnor’s chest, high and left, and the growing stain shows that the bullet has only barely missed the heart.
Ragnor’s eyes flutter. “Had to try,” he mutters. “Those who die weren’t meant to live.”
I stretch out, latch a hold of his left hand, and pull hard, dragging him into shelter. His thin body slides easily over the hard dirt, coming to rest next to me. His eyes raise to meet mine, and a long sigh eases out of him. His gaze unfocuses, dims, and his face stares blankly up at the cerulean sky high above us.
I drop my gaze. He had trusted in me, and I let him down. I had missed the threat. He paid with his life.
My eyes look down his body – and stop.
Gripped tightly in his right hand is a shiv – a short, razor-sharp dagger carved out of a metal spoon. His grip is overhand, as if he had been just about to plunge the makeshift dagger into someone’s back.
Mine.
I glance at his cold eyes again, then scan forward into the woods. They are dark, deep, and completely without motion. Not even a robin warbles within their shadowy depths. I drop my hand to my hip, feeling the reassuring weight of the Ruger there. I reach forward, draw the shiv from Ragnor’s hand, and tuck it into my pocket. Then I ease my way north, losing myself amongst the furrowed oaks.