Page 119 of Ground Truth

The frigid air was thicker and heavier and even more chilling as the hours passed.

Flint ignored it all. His focus was on one thing only. Hedinger.

He made his way around the house to the southwest corner as silently as possible. Any small noise could alert the enemy.

Flint’s vision adjusted to the darkness and the fog. He could see as far as it was possible to see.

Which wasn’t far enough. He shrugged. Nothing he could do about that.

He stopped moving and listened to the disembodied night sounds of rural Scotland.

Someone nearby had chickens. Which meant coyotes and foxes. Which meant dogs to keep the coyotes and foxes away.

This was a farming community. There were probably all sorts of livestock. He could smell dung and hear the gentle lowing of cows in a pasture not too far along the road.

Where would Hedinger be?

Not close enough for Flint to engage him in close combat, for sure. Hedinger wasn’t that man. He didn’t get his own hands dirty. Shooting was one thing. Wrestling in the mud was another.

But Hedinger was armed and dangerous and close enough to hear any small noise.

The crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot as Flint moved sounded exceptionally loud to his own ears. He smelled the damp earth and decaying vegetation.

Suddenly, a noise split the air.

Flint froze in place, all senses alert, listening hard because lives depended on it.

Hedinger.

Had to be.

Flint heard Hedinger moving as he changed his location. Footsteps crunching, he inched along the ground heading in Flint’s direction.

Had he seen Flint through his scope? Or was Hedinger, too, operating on experience and instinct?

Suddenly, Flint heard Hedinger’s sharp intake of breath way too close.

Had Hedinger spotted him?

Flint still couldn’t see the son of a bitch.

He did the only thing he could do. He rushed obliquely forward toward the sounds. When he got close enough, Flint could see Hedinger. He began to scream like a banshee.

The noise surprised Hedinger. Maybe he hadn’t spotted Flint before. He swung the rifle around quickly. But he’d hesitated a moment too long.

Flint lunged forward, grabbing the rifle. He knocked Hedinger flat on his back.

Hedinger refused to release the rifle. He pulled the trigger. The shot fired into the air.

Flint was younger and more fit than Hedinger, but the older man was surprisingly strong.

Hedinger swung the rifle and hit Flint’s left biceps. The blow hurt like hell and must have damaged a nerve. His left arm went numb.

Hedinger used the brief pause to move the barrel of the gun to Flint’s belly. His index finger had been wrenched aside. As soon as he could reach the trigger, Hedinger would fire.

Flint slammed Hedinger’s chin with the butt of his hand, snapping Hedinger’s head back and slamming it on the ground.

Hedinger was momentarily dazed. Long enough for Flint to wrest the rifle from his hands and stand up.

---