Read Online Double Exposure by Michael Lister - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Lister
Tags: Mystery
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Go slow. Take your time. Make some noise.
—Don’t let him circle back and get behind you, a different voice says.
The man is in front of Remington now. He’s got a bright light attached to the barrel of his rifle and trains the beam along the path he’s traversing. As soon as he gets a little further away, Remington can slip out and head in the opposite direction toward the river.
The man fires a round into the air. The loud explosion temporarily halts the sounds of frogs, crickets, and other nocturnal noisemakers. And Remington’s heart.
He fires another round as he continues to move.
—You get him?
The man doesn’t respond.
—Jackson? Jackson? Did you get him?
Jackson, Remington thinks. So there’s at least five men after him. Maybe more.
—You said to make some noise.
—So I did. I’ve got Arlington setting up in the flats in case he doubles back and gets around you.
—He won’t get around me.
—What I like to hear.
So he can’t go back out into the pine flats. Where, then? Just a few more feet and Jackson will be swallowed by the fog. I guess I can go south for a while and then turn east. Jackson stops suddenly, turns, and begins to shine the light behind him, searching all around. Remington lies perfectly still.
Unable to fit entirely beneath the fallen tree, part of his body is exposed.
The light passes directly over him, but is too high to reveal his whereabouts.
Then the man makes a second pass—lower to the ground this time.
Don’t shine it over here. Go the other way.
—Anything?
—Not yet. I’ll radio when I have something.
—How far in are you?
—Not far. I’m taking my time. Making sure he’s not just hiding.
Wait.
—What is it?
Suddenly, Remington is blinded by the beam of the light.
—I got ‘im. I got ‘im.
—Where?
—Don’t move. Put your hands up where I can see ‘em.
—Which one? Remington asks. Can’t do both.
—Jackson?
—Crawl out of there very slow.
—Jackson are you there? Where are you?
Remington eases out from the black walnut, as the man rushes in his direction, gun and light leveled on him.
—Jackson?
—Yeah.
—You got him?
—Got him.
—Shoot him there and we’ll come to you or bring him to me and I’ll do it.
—I shoot him, I make more.
—Fine.
—How much?
—Double.
—Done, Jackson says into the radio, then to Remington, Get on your knees.
—I just got up.
—One shot to the head’ll be painless. I gotta shoot you a bunch of times, it’s gonna hurt like hell and take you some time to die.
—I reckon I’d like to live as long as I can.
—Suit yourself, but—
As the man shrugs, Remington lunges toward him. Going in low, beneath the rifle, he digs his shoulder into Jackson’s groin, then raises up, bucking the rifle away, tackling him to the ground.
As he falls on top of the man, he rolls his shoulder and turns his arm, smashing his forearm into the man’s throat. Rolling.
Clutching.
Running.
Grabbing the radio, Remington rolls off the man, snatches up the rifle and starts to run.
Root.
Stumble.
Fall.
Hitting the ground hard after just a few feet, Remington drops the rifle, but manages to hang onto the radio.
Crawling toward the rifle, his hands and knees slipping on the leaves, Remington can hear Jackson slowly climbing to his feet.
By the time Remington has the rifle again, Jackson is lurching toward him.
No time.
Don’t think.
Just shoot.
Instinctively, he pulls back the bolt, ejecting a bullet from the breech, then jams it forward, racking another round into the chamber.
Raising the rifle, he takes in a breath, aims, exhales two-thirds of his breath, holds the rest, and calmly squeezes the trigger.
Nothing happens.
Jackson’s almost on him.
Safety.
He presses the safety button and tries again.
The deafening sound in the dark forest leaves his ears ringing.
—Is it done? the calm voice from the radio asks.
Ripping a hole in Jackson’s chest, the round goes through and
—Don’t let him circle back and get behind you, a different voice says.
The man is in front of Remington now. He’s got a bright light attached to the barrel of his rifle and trains the beam along the path he’s traversing. As soon as he gets a little further away, Remington can slip out and head in the opposite direction toward the river.
The man fires a round into the air. The loud explosion temporarily halts the sounds of frogs, crickets, and other nocturnal noisemakers. And Remington’s heart.
He fires another round as he continues to move.
—You get him?
The man doesn’t respond.
—Jackson? Jackson? Did you get him?
Jackson, Remington thinks. So there’s at least five men after him. Maybe more.
—You said to make some noise.
—So I did. I’ve got Arlington setting up in the flats in case he doubles back and gets around you.
—He won’t get around me.
—What I like to hear.
So he can’t go back out into the pine flats. Where, then? Just a few more feet and Jackson will be swallowed by the fog. I guess I can go south for a while and then turn east. Jackson stops suddenly, turns, and begins to shine the light behind him, searching all around. Remington lies perfectly still.
Unable to fit entirely beneath the fallen tree, part of his body is exposed.
The light passes directly over him, but is too high to reveal his whereabouts.
Then the man makes a second pass—lower to the ground this time.
Don’t shine it over here. Go the other way.
—Anything?
—Not yet. I’ll radio when I have something.
—How far in are you?
—Not far. I’m taking my time. Making sure he’s not just hiding.
Wait.
—What is it?
Suddenly, Remington is blinded by the beam of the light.
—I got ‘im. I got ‘im.
—Where?
—Don’t move. Put your hands up where I can see ‘em.
—Which one? Remington asks. Can’t do both.
—Jackson?
—Crawl out of there very slow.
—Jackson are you there? Where are you?
Remington eases out from the black walnut, as the man rushes in his direction, gun and light leveled on him.
—Jackson?
—Yeah.
—You got him?
—Got him.
—Shoot him there and we’ll come to you or bring him to me and I’ll do it.
—I shoot him, I make more.
—Fine.
—How much?
—Double.
—Done, Jackson says into the radio, then to Remington, Get on your knees.
—I just got up.
—One shot to the head’ll be painless. I gotta shoot you a bunch of times, it’s gonna hurt like hell and take you some time to die.
—I reckon I’d like to live as long as I can.
—Suit yourself, but—
As the man shrugs, Remington lunges toward him. Going in low, beneath the rifle, he digs his shoulder into Jackson’s groin, then raises up, bucking the rifle away, tackling him to the ground.
As he falls on top of the man, he rolls his shoulder and turns his arm, smashing his forearm into the man’s throat. Rolling.
Clutching.
Running.
Grabbing the radio, Remington rolls off the man, snatches up the rifle and starts to run.
Root.
Stumble.
Fall.
Hitting the ground hard after just a few feet, Remington drops the rifle, but manages to hang onto the radio.
Crawling toward the rifle, his hands and knees slipping on the leaves, Remington can hear Jackson slowly climbing to his feet.
By the time Remington has the rifle again, Jackson is lurching toward him.
No time.
Don’t think.
Just shoot.
Instinctively, he pulls back the bolt, ejecting a bullet from the breech, then jams it forward, racking another round into the chamber.
Raising the rifle, he takes in a breath, aims, exhales two-thirds of his breath, holds the rest, and calmly squeezes the trigger.
Nothing happens.
Jackson’s almost on him.
Safety.
He presses the safety button and tries again.
The deafening sound in the dark forest leaves his ears ringing.
—Is it done? the calm voice from the radio asks.
Ripping a hole in Jackson’s chest, the round goes through and