“OK, everybody, let’s settle in,” Ferguson said.

Fisher had been prone in his ghillie suit since 9.45am. They had come in from the northwest, using the trail that ran by the back of the bowl. He heard three men walk past his position, could hear another one cut south. He gave them thirty minutes to settle in before he moved.

Slowly, Fisher raised the Dragunov. He’d be firing through a lot of cover, so he was careful picking his line. He’d take the three on the east side of the bowl first. He found Lawrence near the top of the ridgeline. He had good cover in front of him, but Fisher had a quartering shot at the base of the skull. Range was under four hundred meters. Fisher let out half a breath, let his mind clear, let the mil dots settle, slowly started squeezing the trigger. The Dragunov twitched with a low cough. Through the scope, Fisher saw a puff of red and gray as the top of Lawrence’s head disintegrated. Fisher slowly moved the Dragunov down and to the right.

The next target was easier. Less brush in the way. But he would have to work quickly. These two targets were only twenty meters apart. He didn’t know them. Younger guys. They were set up closest to the lot, both carrying M16s with scopes and extended magazines. If he didn’t get them clean, Fisher would have a mess of incoming fire. The first target was prone, closest to Fisher. The second had a good sitting perch between two trees. Farther guy was the tougher shot, and he could roll into cover easily. Take him first. Fisher didn’t see any bunching to indicate body armor but didn’t want to risk a chest shot. A branch hung down across the top of the target’s head. Fisher sighted in on his throat and fired and then quickly swung the rifle to the left. The prone target was rolling and bringing his M16 up toward the back of the ridge. Guy processed the shot quick, Fisher thought, figured the angle. Fisher took a snap shot at center mass and the target lost his weapon, curling into a fetal position. Still some movement, though. Fisher centered his sight picture on the side of the target’s head and fired.

Ferguson watched the station and waited, trying to gauge the odds of somebody driving by or stopping for gas at a bad time. Traffic was sparse. One couple arrived in separate cars, left one for service and drove off together. Only one other car on the road in the fifteen minutes he’d been watching. Guy must do service business mostly, Ferguson thought. Maybe more traffic in the fall, once hunting season opened. Lots of deer signs in the woods.

Ferguson was trying to stay focused. The terrain was perfect, but he didn’t like throwing an op together this fast. Something was eating at him. Ferguson tried to think what was missing. But, shit, the terrain was perfect. Suddenly, Ferguson keyed his mic.

“Chen, you on line?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the next closest service station?”

“One moment,” she answered. “It’s on the east side of town, at the end of the ramp off the Interstate. From your position, 6.1 kilometers.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Ferguson. That’s what was wrong. Why would Fisher put himself in this bag if he didn’t have to? Just for a brake job? With another station six clicks away in a public space with good sight lines? “Tell Weaver we are bugging out. Meet us back at the trailhead. Out.”

Ferguson thought he saw something and knew he heard something. He thought he saw lateral movement at the top of the ridge directly behind the station. Peripheral vision. When he looked directly, nothing. But he knew he heard a click, like someone activating a throat mic. Ferguson clicked his. No response. “Lawrence,” he whispered. Nothing. Movement again, turning his way this time. Ghillie. A gun in a ghillie. He could see the suppressor. Ferguson tried to swing the Barrett, but he had only cleared a field of fire for the station and the road. The Barrett hung up in the brush. Fuck this, he thought, and rolled off the ledge down the loose rock scree toward the road.

Fisher’s sight picture settled on Ferguson just as he tried to turn the Barrett. Fisher knew Ferguson. He had worked with him, had eaten at his house, knew his children. Fisher paused. Just a fraction of a pause. As Ferguson rolled toward the edge, Fisher fired. Ferguson disappeared, his Barrett hung up in the brush at the top of the ledge, and then slid butt-first over the edge. Fisher wasn’t sure on Ferguson, but he had done what he had set out to do. He had warned the Philistines.

Fisher pulled the green duffle holding the rifle case out from under the brush and looped it over his shoulder

Fisher made his way east along the edge of the ridge. He stopped as he passed Lawrence’s position. Fisher took the Barrett and slipped the bandolier of spare magazines off the corpse and into the duffle. The Barrett’s barrel stuck out a long way. Half a mile east of the station, he cut across the road and south, uphill toward the ridge overlooking the church.

In the woods along the ridge behind the church, Fisher stripped off the Ghillie and left it on the ground. He wouldn’t need it anymore. He pulled the duffle off his shoulder and set the Dragunov inside. He took the stock off the Barrett and separated the barrel assembly. Now it fit in the duffle.

The red pickup was parked in the far corner of the parking lot close to the ridge. Confessions had started, but Fisher was not doing God’s work today. He was in the City of Man. He opened the truck cap, set the duffle in the back, and then drove across the lot, down Hill Street, down Main Street, and back to I-57. The sign at the exit read North Chicago.

Back to the City of God.

Ferguson rested for a minute on the shoulder of the road at the base of the rocky incline he had just tumbled down, letting the trivial pains – the cuts, scrapes, and bruises – settle out so he could focus on any major damage. Nasty cut on the back of his head. He could feel blood running down inside his collar. Right shoulder hurt like hell. Looking at it, he could see a furrow through the jacket, the shirt, and the flesh on the top of the shoulder. Fisher had come pretty close. Ferguson tested the range of motion. Not separated. Nothing felt broken. Maybe a rib. Might be a cracked rib. Right hip was stiffening up in a big hurry where his radio had been smashed into uselessness. Other than that, just garden-variety pain, a feeling like he had been put in a dryer with a laundry basket full of rocks.

The Barrett had clattered down a few feet to his right. The objective lens in the scope was cracked. Ferguson picked the weapon up and worked the action. A shell ejected and the next shell in the clip fed into the chamber. Nothing jammed. He set the Barrett in the shallow ditch between the rock face and the road.

The big question was this: Was Fisher coming for him? He reached inside the cammie jacket where he had a Browning Hi-Power 9mm in a shoulder holster and pulled the pistol free. He slipped off the safety and chambered a round, then switched the Browning to his left hand. He could knock out the X-ring with either hand from fifty feet, and he still wasn’t real sure about his right arm.

The road had been cut into the rock intermittently along this stretch. Just ahead, a shoulder of rock jutted out, cutting off Ferguson’s view around the corner back to the Marathon station. He got to his feet. No light-headedness, no sudden failures in the ankles or knees. He made his way to the edge of the rock outcropping. Decision time. If Fisher was waiting, Ferguson would be dead as soon as he stuck his head around the corner. Of course, if Fisher was stalking him to confirm the kill, then he would be dead in the next few minutes anyway. He had no way to contact Chen. He needed to get back to the trailhead, but that would take twenty minutes at least, probably thirty at the rate he’d be moving now. No time for that. Better get inside the station, use the landline, see if Weaver had a plan to come back from this shit.