Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

One for which I’ve waited years.

One I will definitely savor.

What’s the old saying? Revenge is always best served up cold? Something like that. Well, it couldn’t get much colder than this with temperatures sliding below freezing and fifteen years of waiting. But now the time is right.

I’ve checked.

Brady Long is alone.

I take my rifle from the back of the truck, then begin the long trek to the main house where, no doubt, he’s already settled in. The prince in his castle. The snow is beginning to fall again. Tiny flakes 146

Lisa Jackson

that swirl and dance, quietly changing the landscape, distorting the view, muting the sounds of the day.

I follow the path of the stream easily, from memory, having run this course dozens of times in the past.

Quickly.

Moving through the thick pines and hemlock, I spy the house, a hundred yards away, the roof thick with snow, dormers protruding, windows dark. But on the main level there are lights, glowing warmly in the gray morning, inviting me inside. It’s all I can do not to smile, but I warn myself not to savor the kill until it has happened, until Brady Long has taken his last, rattling breath. Only then will I be able to relish my success, as justice will finally prevail. Through a thicket of naked aspens, I move along a deer path and spy the helicopter sitting still as death, long rotors unmoving, the windows of the cockpit already showing a thin layer of snow. Closer to the house, I turn and head toward the garage at the far end of the building, away from the windows in the den and living area. Though I’m dressed in white, I’m certain I blend with the landscape, I must be careful. The element of surprise is necessary.

At the door I listen.

Sure enough, music is emanating from the speakers inside the house. If nothing else, Brady Long is a creature of habit. Which makes my job so much easier. The back door is unlocked, so I don’t have to bother with a key. I walk softly and quickly through

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the kitchen to the main hallway. In the foyer, I peer into the living room.

Empty.

My heart is beating a little more quickly now. I’m sweating inside the house in my ski suit and I flip my goggles onto the top of my head as the amber lenses are starting to fog. I have to have complete visibility. It’s necessary that I be accurate and deadly.

I make my way to the open door of the den. Sure enough, Brady is there. Sitting in a big leather recliner, feet up, cigar in one hand, drink resting on the desk. Bourbon, I’m guessing. A fire is burning in the grate, and there are papers strewn over the desk. Of course. Hubert’s will. Brady Long is so damned predictable.

His eyes are closed and he’s singing along to some rock tune from the eighties, mouthing the words like he’s some famous hard-rock band frontman. Idiot.

My rifle is already at my shoulder. I take aim. But I want him to have a moment of fear, to see me and realize that justice, long overdue, is being served.

“Long!” I yell and his eyes fly open.

In a split second he recognizes me and forgets all about the song. “What the hell?”

But he knows.

His startled face says it all.

He starts to move, to leap from the chair. Too late!

I pull the trigger.

Chapter Eleven

Using his walking stick, Ivor Hicks stole across the property line separating the federal land from that of Hubert Long, a miserable S.O.B. if there ever was one. From what Ivor had heard, Hubert wasn’t long for this world and that was just fine by him.

And yet, he didn’t like tromping across the government’s land or into Long territory, for that matter, but he felt compelled this morning and he knew why.