After twenty-four hours of no sleep, twelve hours without food, and six hours with a stomach bug, Michael was finding it extremely difficult to think through even the simplest of problems. The adrenaline that had been pushing the past few days only came in spurts. Every few minutes, when he thought he was relaxing, his heart would race with palpations jolting him to a state of restless anxiety. Claude was in Alaska, and he was on his way to Moose Pass.
He'd asked Stuart to carry the weapon, to which he'd surprisingly agreed to without a complaint. Once they'd established the direction of Claude's approach, they'd made their way to the opposite side of town. They'd gone just deep enough into the forest that they could still see the city. If Claude came by car, as the tracker currently suggested, he'd have to expose himself when he entered the town. They'd see him well before he could see them, even if he knew their general location. To their right, they also had an open view of the water just in case he switched from land to sea.
"The gun is loaded," Stuart said, "Safety's here. When you take the shot, you better hit him. You only get one shot at a time."
Michael nodded. He was feeling less optimistic about his gunmanship capabilities. If the shot missed, he had no idea how to reload. He doubted Stuart would stick around to help if Claude was that close.
"Can I see the phone?" Michael asked.
"You already have the tracker," Stuart replied, pointing to the square tracker lying in the brush next to Michael.
"Not the tracker, the phone. Gary's phone."
"Are you calling Gary?" Stuart asked, "I don't think he'll be here on time."
"No, I"m calling Mimsy," Michael answered.
"You can't tell her—"
"I know." Michael's eyes were a little bit wet. He couldn't imagine how rough it'd be for the old woman if she was informed he'd been killed in Alaska.
To Michael's surprise, the call connected. Mimsy's phone rang twice and went straight to voicemail as Michael assumed it would. She rarely answered the phone for people she did know. When it came to unknown numbers, she would write down the digits and ask him to block them whenever he visited.
"Hey Mimsy, it's Michael. I just wanted to say thank you for everything. I don't say it enough, but I appreciate everything you've done for the family and me. Let's have dinner again soon. I love you." Michael held the phone to his ear, trying to decide what else he should say. Partially sleep-deprived, partially unable to summarize a lifetime of gratitude in a voicemail, he simply said: "I love you." A second time and hung up. He kept the phone open and began to type in Katiella's number. She deserved a thank you as well.
He got five digits into the number when Stuart suddenly shouted, "He's here!"
Michael snapped the phone shut and looked at the tracker. Fifteen minutes away. He was coming by car. Michael continually shifted his view from the tracker to the town, waiting for the car to appear. He half expected the vehicle to peel around the corner with Claude hanging out the window, spraying the forest with lead. It was the opposite. Just as the car was at the edge of the town, the dot on the tracker disappeared.
"What do you mean it stopped working?" Stuart low crawled from his bush to Michael's side, examining the device. The dot wasn't there.
"That's him." Michael pointed at a silver Malibu that was pulling into gravel parking lot in front of the inn.
"Or is that him?" Stuart pointed at a second car that was pulling through the Main Street. It slowed to a stop, allowing an elderly couple to cross the street. One they cleared the sidewalk, the second car continued the main road that led back to the highway, going out of sight.
Michael turned his attention back towards the silver car. Nobody had left the vehicle. He tilted his head and peered down the scope, taking a few moments to find the driver's window. It was a man that fit the general description of Claude's build. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat paired with a set set of aviator sunglasses. His nose looked like Claude's , his lips looked a bit like Claude's . "I got you," Michael said under his breath.
"You can't take that shot," Stuart interjected. "You won't hit him."
"If I miss, you can reload it, and I'll try again. This might be my only shot."
"If you miss, you're sending a stray bullet into a town of innocent people. Stray bullets still hit something."
"Oh, so you're Mother Teresa now?" Michael whispered.
Michael did a quick scan of the town. A few people were wondering about, but not in the vicinity of the parked car. He wasn't sure if it was the fatigue, the scenario, or his recent feeling of absolute helplessness, but without a second thought he flicked off the safety and stared down the scope.
The driver door suddenly opened, and a leather boot swung out and crunched the gravel. The man stood up. Michael moved his finger to the trigger. Slowly the man turned away from the forest. He walked to the back of the car and opened the rear passenger door.
"He's getting his gun!" Michael said in an exasperated whisper. Michael's finger twitched in front of the trigger.
Just take the shot.
The man began to kneel into the rear seat. The brim of his cap cast a dark shadow over his face.
Just take the shot.
But was he willing to become a murderer? It wasn't this man's fault. The Company pinned them against each other. If the roles were switched, surely Claude would shoot. Maybe they could both live? But then Claude's kids would die. Claude was a corrupt person, he may not deserve to die, but certainly more than Michael. Claude worked for The Company. Claude was connected to the murders of who know how many innocent souls.
His finger now rested on the trigger. He'd probably miss anyways, but someone's got to take the first shot.
The man suddenly stood straight up. When Michael saw him, he rolled onto his side and tossed the gun.
The man was holding his sunglasses in one hand and his sleeping baby girl in the other.
"Put the safety on!" Stuart said, crawling over to do it himself. "Never toss a weapon."
Michael rolled onto his back and stared up at the clouds. His heart was skipping again. Stuart's words, a bullet has to hit something, Kept echoing in his head.
"It's not him," Stuart said.
Michael didn't answer.
"No, I mean, it's not him because that's him."
Michael rolled to his side to see what Stuart was talking about.
The tracker had the dot again. This time it was somewhere behind them in the forest.