CHAPTER NINETEEN
As soon as she hung up with Isaac, Lilli got to work. She logged out and closed down the work she’d been doing, changed into hiking shorts, a light tank, and her terrain runners, and quickly loaded her pack—double-checking her ammo supply and attaching a silencer to her Sig. She almost ran to her car, where she fitted her M25 with its silencer as well. This was broad daylight, which had not been part of Plan A, so she wasn’t sure she’d be able to use the M25. The situation would have to be perfect to get her all the way to Hobson’s on foot with a sniper rifle strapped to her back. But she wanted it fitted just in case.
Most likely, this job had moved to Plan B—up close and personal, with the Sig in play. That was concealed in her pack, allowing her to move freely.
Time was way too short. Lilli had a long hike to get from a safe place for her car to Hobson’s shack of a house. Seven miles at least—and she’d have to stay low for the last couple of miles, which would slow her up considerably. If Isaac had done as she’d asked, Hobson would be there well in advance of her. She needed to book it when and where she could. She couldn’t imagine she had more than today, at best, before he’d made her.
The clubhouse would have been the safer, for her, arena. But she wasn’t going to kill a man in the middle of Isaac’s club—it was more home to him than his ancestral land. That wasn’t even a momentary consideration. Yet now that her plans were known to the club—to Hobson’s brother—her time was short. It was now.
She parked in the rough lot of a well-known hiking area. Nine other cars in the lot. So much for the M25. She grabbed her pack and got to hiking, moving at a trot, as quickly as she could without undue notice, while there were other hikers around. She veered off the path at her first clear chance and headed apace into woods which had become familiar to her over the past weeks.
When she was within a couple of miles of Hobson’s place, she slowed and heeded the sounds she made. She had to be alert and ready to hide. Hobson had taken, toward the end of her surveillance, to wandering in the woods; twice she’d almost come up on him, or vice versa, and she’d had to take quick cover. One of those times, he’d passed by her so closely she almost could have touched him.
She almost hadn’t recognized him. He was fully bearded, and it was long and unkempt, like his hair. Hair and beard had gone dully grey. He was thin—emaciated, really—and no longer had the bearing of military service. Instead, his shoulders sagged. He looked like a man carrying a heavy load of guilt. As he fucking should. It didn’t affect Lilli’s resolve in the slightest. Remorse was meaningless as long as he drew breath the men who died that day could not.
The day he’d passed so near her, she’d struggled hard to stay still and not simply handle the situation right then. But they had a plan, and she’d needed to stick to it. Part of the plan was settling into town some before taking action. Another part of the plan was not firing an unsilenced handgun less than a quarter-mile from a working farm. Even in the country, that was an undue risk. So she’d stayed in cover and let him pass.
That was all while Plan A had been in effect; everything had gone ass-up since then. Plan B was more guerilla than sniper. In many ways, she preferred it. Plan A would have resulted in his death, but a clean one he might not even feel. Plan B put them face to face, made sure he knew what was happening, why, and by whom. She’d told herself—and Isaac—repeatedly that it was justice she and her team wanted, not vengeance. But vengeance would be sweet if she could get it.
Finally, she crept up to a rise over which she could see his ratty little house. It was barely a cabin, really, without even an indoor toilet. The house sat up strangely off the ground, on stilts maybe 18-24 inches high. Lilli figured the little creek that ran past it on the far side must occasionally flood, though it was barely a trickle now. A weathered board hut with a half moon in the door stood off a short distance. Outhouse. The place was a literal shithole.
There was a dark grey van parked next to Hobson’s beater pickup. She knew that van. She pulled her camera and zoom out and took a closer look. Yes—it was the Horde van. Somebody from the club was still there. Fuck. She lay down on the far side of the rise and waited.
There was no movement or sound for some time—twenty minutes or so—and then she heard the sharp report of a pistol. Nothing more. One shot, and then silence again. Leaving her pack tucked in a cluster of rocks and grass, she took her Sig with her and stole down to the house.
She checked under the house as she sidled up to it—clear. The room in the middle of the house had a large window that must have gone almost to the floor. Curtains closed off all but the middle couple of feet. Her back pressed snugly against the splintered, cracked siding, Lilli tried to get a view into that room. She was barely able to make out a body lying on the floor. She couldn’t see enough to know who it was, whether it was Hobson or whoever had been here from the Horde—his brother maybe? She hadn’t met his brother. But she couldn’t see Isaac letting the brothers leave the clubhouse together.
She had no idea whether the shooter was friend or foe. As she continued carefully along the house, she heard something—a crack or a creak. She paused and listened, trying to place it. The sound didn’t repeat. She took another soundless step—and then her feet were yanked out from under her. Her head slammed hard on the rocky ground, and the world got loud and dim. Before she could drag full consciousness back to the fore, Hobson was looming over her, filthy and covered in cobwebs, a wild look in his eyes. Her head cleared then, and she understood that he’d gone under the house to get to her. She’d been colossally stupid not to check again.
Now he was straddling her, one hand holding down her wrist, immobilizing her gun hand. His knee pressed down on her other arm. With his free hand, he had a gun of his own under her chin.
“You fucking gash! You come after me? Why won’t you get out of my HEAD?” He cocked the gun.
In a flash of vivid thought, Lilli made a decision. She could try to back him down, or she could just fucking go for it. Her chances of survival here were nil, either way. One of them was dying today. Perhaps within the next few seconds.
She kicked her legs up and put everything she had into an effort to dislodge him and come up on top of him.
She succeeded, but he pulled the trigger. The gun had shifted in their struggle, though, and instead of going through the soft underside of her chin and into her brain, the bullet glanced off the side of her neck, taking a painful, hot gouge with it. She could feel the blood soaking her top, but she ignored it. She slammed his hand down then, and the gun skidded from his grasp. He still had her wrist in a desperate, iron grip, so she punched him hard in the side of the head. She felt something break in her hand, but she’d dazed him at least momentarily. He moved to roll her.
He was still dazed, so the move didn’t have the power it should have. As he tried to get her back on the ground, his grip on her loosened, and Lilli took the opportunity to flip over and away. She ended up on her knees, free of him but unarmed. He’d dislodged her Sig from her hand; her right side, where the bullet had slit her throat, was going weak. She was losing blood, and the fight wasn’t helping. She was concussed. But she pulled it together, not bothering to fret about how hard it was to do so. She saw his pistol—an old Colt revolver—and stood to go for it.
The standing did her in. She went to her knees as her vision swirled and glittered. She looked down and found herself fascinated by the dark crimson dyeing most of her top.
It was going to be her that died.
She didn’t even care enough to try to get off her knees.
Hobson limped up to her. “You know what? I don’t want you dyin’ fast. You been torturin’ me for years now. I want you goin’ slow. There’s shit you owe me, cunt.” He bent down and tied something snugly around her neck, like a bandage.
Her last thought was disappointment.