The wolf lay on his stomach on the rough desert soil.
That's how the man thought of himself-a beast stalking his next kill.
He had an excellent view of Fort Nash Mowat from this high place, and the night air was pleasant and cool. He peered at tonight's prey through the night-vision scope on his rifle.
He thought back to his hated victims.
Three weeks ago it had been Rolsky.
Then came Fraser.
Then came Worthing.
He'd taken them out with great finesse, with shots to the head so clean they surely hadn't even known a bullet had hit them.
Tonight, it would be Barton.
The wolf watched Barton walking along an unlit path. Although the image through the night scope was grainy and monotone, the target was sufficiently visible for his purposes.
But he wouldn't shoot tonight's prey-not yet.
He wasn't far enough away. Someone nearby might be able to figure out his location, even though he had attached a flash hider to his M110 sniper rifle. He wasn't going to make the amateurish mistake of underestimating the soldiers on this base.
Following Barton through his scope, the wolf enjoyed the feel of the M110 in his hands. These days the Army was transitioning toward using the Heckler & Koch G28 as a standard sniper rifle. While the wolf knew the G28 was lighter and more compact, he still preferred the M110. It was more accurate, even if it was longer and harder to conceal.
He had twenty rounds in the magazine, but he only intended to use one when the time came to fire.
He was going to take out Barton with one shot, or not at all.
He could feel the energy of the pack, as though they were watching him, giving him their support.
He watched as Barton finally arrived at his destination-one of the base's outdoor tennis courts. Several other players greeted him as he stepped onto the court and unpacked his tennis gear.
Now that Barton was in the brightly lit area, the wolf had no further need of the night scope. He detached it to use the day optical sight. Then he took aim directly at Barton's head. The image was no longer grainy, but crystal clear and in full, vivid color.
Barton was about three hundred feet away now.
At that range, the wolf could depend upon the rifle's precision down to an inch.
It was up to him to stay within that inch.
And he knew that he would.
Just a slight squeeze of the trigger, he thought.
That was all that was needed now.
The wolf basked in that mysterious, suspended moment.
There was something almost religious about those seconds before pulling the trigger, when he waited for himself to will the shot, waited for himself to decide to squeeze with his finger. During that moment, life and death seemed strangely out of his hands. The irrevocable move would happen in the fullness of an instant.
It would be his decision-and yet not his decision at all.
Whose decision was it, then?
He fancied that there was an animal, a true wolf, lurking inside him, a remorseless creature that took actual command over that fatal moment and movement.
That animal was both his friend and his enemy. And he loved it with a strange love that he could only feel toward a mortal enemy. That inner animal was what called out the best in him, kept him truly up to the mark.
The wolf lay waiting for that animal to strike.
But the animal didn't.
The wolf didn't pull the trigger.
He wondered why.
Something seems wrong, he thought.
It quickly occurred to him what it was.
The view of the target in the glaring tennis court floodlights through the regular scope was simply too clear.
It would take too little effort.
There was no challenge.
It wouldn't be worthy of a true wolf.
Also, it was too soon after the last killing. The others had been spaced out to stir up anxiety and uncertainty among the men he loathed. Shooting Barton now would disrupt the psychological rhythmic impact of his work.
He smiled a little at the realization. He got to his feet with his gun and started to walk back the way he'd come.
He felt right about leaving his prey undisturbed for now.
No one knew when he'd strike next.
Not even he himself.