When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
That will be ere the set of sun. —Macbeth, Act I, Scene 1
Ozone stung my nose. My eyes hadn’t recovered from the blinding flash before I was deafened by the thunder. That was close. Lights flickered as my backup power supply spun up and the screen stabilized once again. Lightning in Seattle was rare and I was waiting for another clap, but the blast came at the trailing edge of the storm and as quickly as the lightning bolt hit the storm stopped. A few trailing drops of rain splashed in the standing water on the sidewalks, and then the night was still. I turned away from the window and plunged back into the alternate reality in front of me.
In the silence I could hear her footsteps. I could almost see her, a shadow turning the corner ahead of me. But when I reached the intersection, she was gone.
I waited.
She’d been leaving tracks a noob could follow. It was almost as though she finally wanted to be caught—wanted it to be over.
There. I snatched the Macy’s receipt out of the air, looking for clues to where she was headed. But she was already gone.
Her fresh tracks led places no fifteen year old would go. In a crowded strip club, she dropped money faster than the entertainers could pick it up. She’d been here before—knew her way around. She freely went in and out of rooms that took all my persuasive powers to get into and I spent more time covering my own tracks than looking for hers. I took names as I went. Jordan would have a field day with this.
I was getting tired. I hadn’t slept in two days. I grimly thought back to college days when pulling all-nighters to write code or party was a common occurrence. It was a lot easier twenty years ago. Now I fueled my drive with caffeine instead of alcohol. So far I’d managed to stay off the power drinks, but two days on a steady drip of espresso was beginning to make my hands shaky.
I knew she was out there, but I couldn’t get my eyes on her at first. She knew all the tricks and she was too practiced for a kid her supposed age to be. She jumped from place to place with no apparent connection, but I was beginning to see a pattern.
I rubbed my eyes and almost missed her leaving the strip club and stopping at a trendy shop downtown. This was getting exhausting and I was ready to put an end to this little cat and mouse game. She was out of the boutique in minutes and I almost didn’t recognize her when she emerged and headed straight for the casino. When she walked through the door, I had a positive ID. This was territory I knew and had charted before I started closing in on her.
Casinos are high on security and they are quick to block exits if they believe they are being ripped off. They also hire guys like me to troubleshoot their systems. Of course, they weren’t likely to do anything drastic as long as she was dropping cash at the rate she was. She knew it wasn’t safe to stay in one place for too long, but I’d already blocked her best avenue of escape with a quick maneuver I learned in the Navy. Once I had her cornered there was only one escape, and she knew it. She headed for the rooftop. I had exactly what I needed now and I phoned in the address.
When an animal is stalked there comes a point when it knows it is prey. I’ve watched enough nature television in my life to recognize the moment when the prey understands its fate. Its eyes go wide and there is a last panicked search for refuge before the eyes lose their depth. The gaze becomes flat. Whatever maneuvers it takes, it knows are futile—just a delay of the inevitable.
She took a quick shot at me, testing my resolve.
Animals often turn on the predator in a last effort to ward off their doom. Fight or flight. Fleeing failed, but so will fighting. The gazelle stands no chance against the panther. Still, I had to admire her tenacity and attempt to turn the tables. Make herself look like a victim and hope someone comes to her rescue. But the herd never turns to defend the straggler.
“You’ll have to do better than that, schweetheart,” I drawled. I was watching her every move. I sometimes play darts with a local team. They talk about being in the zone when they play. It’s a moment when the bullseye seems to expand in front of them and there is no way they can miss it. It’s like throwing a peanut through a basketball hoop. Time was slowing down as I crept closer to her and my target was going to be hard to miss.
“You should be scared,” I intoned. “Your time is just about up.”
By now she could tell something wasn’t quite right. She knew the moment was near. I had a lock on her.
“Funny, but from here you don’t look like a fifteenyear old girl,” I muttered. “More like a middle-aged cross-dresser with a two-day beard.” I was delaying. Everything had to be perfect. There was no room for error. I needed her in exactly the right position.
The rest of the team was in place. I could see them in the building. She realized they were there now and shifted toward the edge of the roof—her only escape route. I raised my hand.
This was the moment of truth—when the game turned to reality—when somebody goes down. Did she really deserve this? Did I have the right to decide? In spite of my hesitation, this was the moment I played for. A red haze settled across my eyes. She heard the knock at thte door and started to jump. I took a deep breath.
And pulled the trigger.
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