The door slammed shut and footsteps echoed across the porch.
Good.
The killer smiled, trained his rifle on the porch.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He needed a clean shot. Then he’d squeeze the trigger and send Dan Grayson to his maker. The thought was like warm honey that balmed his soul, sweet and thick, calming. Oh, what perfect revenge this would be. But he was getting ahead of himself. As much as he felt the zing of anticipation through his blood, he couldn’t play into it. Not yet. Carefully, he steadied his accelerating heartbeat as well as his hand. Sighting through the crosshairs of his scope, he aimed, watching as the big man strode down two steps, ax in hand. The stupid dog was running back and forth, a distraction, but so far hadn’t noticed that Grayson was being stalked.
Good boy. Just continue to be an idiot.
Grayson crossed the driveway, making tracks in the new snow, to the other side of the garage where he’d stacked big chunks of wood. He didn’t hesitate; he found a couple of pieces and split them neatly, the wood cracking as kindling split off and flew to the ground.
He itched to pull the trigger, but a tree was in the way, so he held tight. Beneath his ski mask, sweat began to pepper his brow as he thought of how long he’d waited for just this moment, this instant in time when he could finally get rid of Grayson forever.
Payback’s a bitch.
Craaack! Another piece split. Then another.
Come on, come on. How much kindling do you really need?
The answer, of course, was none.
Finally, Grayson bent over, picked up an armload of kindling, and stepped from under the overhang.
He trained his sight on the now-moving target . . . aiming . . . aiming . . . centering the crosshairs so there was no slipup. His finger started to squeeze.
Woof! Woof!
Sharp barks rang through the canyon.
The dog! Where the hell is the damned dog?
Without moving his head, his hands still steady on the rifle stock, he glanced to one side. In his peripheral vision, he saw a flash of black dashing through the trees.
Damned mutt! Go away!
Nerves jangled slightly, he reminded himself that he was upwind. No way could the dog—
“Sturgis!” Grayson’s voice boomed, seeming loud enough to cause an avalanche.
He froze.
“Come!” Grayson commanded, squinting into the growing light, scouring the woods for his stupid mutt.
Oh, hell!
His heart began to jackhammer, his nerves stretched tight as crossbow strings.
Concentrate, don’t be distracted. You can do this ... Again he focused on his target. Grayson had rotated slightly and stood facing his direction. Perfect.
He started to squeeze.
Another sharp, warning bark.
Shit!
Grayson started walking away from the house, disappearing behind a copse of saplings. Son of a bitch! The killer needed to finish this, get a clean shot and pull the damned trigger.