Four Blind Mice

Chapter Forty-Three

They made camp about two clicks from the AT. It was dangerous for them to be seen by anybody so Starkey established an NDP, a Night Defense Position, for the camp. Then they each kept watch in two-hour shifts. Nostalgia rules.

When Starkey took his shift, he passed the time thinking not so much about the job looming ahead of them, but the job in general. He, Harris and Griffin were professional killers and had been for over twenty years. They'd been assassins in Vietnam, Panama, the Gulf War, and now they were assassins for hire. They were careful, discreet and expensive. The current job was their most lucrative and involved several murders over a period of two years. The curious thing about it was they didn't know the identity of their employer. They were given new targets only after the previous job was completed.

As he stared into the dark, restless woods, Starkey wanted a cigarette, but he settled for an Altoids. Those little fuckers kept you awake. He found himself thinking about the blonde bitch they had offed near Fayetteville, pretty Vanessa. The memory got him hard and that helped the time pass. While they were still in Vietnam, Starkey had discovered that he liked to kill. The murders gave him a powerful feeling of control and elation. It was like electricity was passing through his body. He never felt guilt, not anymore. He killed for hire; but he also killed in between jobs, because he wanted to, and liked it.

“Strange, scary stuff,” Starkey muttered as he rubbed his hands together. “Scare myself sometimes.”

The three of them were up and ready by five the next morning, which was shrouded in a thick, bluish-gray fog. The air was cool, but incredibly fresh and clean. Starkey figured the fog wouldn't burn off until at least ten.

Harris was in the best physical shape of the three, so he was designated as the scout. He wanted the job anyway. At fifty-one, he still played in a men's basketball league and did triathlons twice a year.

At 5:15 he set off from camp at a comfortable jogging pace. Christ, he loved this shit.

Nostalgia.

Harris found that he was wide awake and alert once he was on the move. He was operating beautifully after just a few minutes on the trail. The hunt and kill was a satisfying combination of business and pleasure for him, for all three of them.

Harris was the only person around this early on the AT, at least this particular stretch of it. He passed a four-person dome tent. Probably some white-bread family. Most likely' section hikers' as opposed to' through hikers'

who would take up to six months to do the entire trail, finally ending at a place called Katahdin, Maine. Around the dome tent he noticed a camp stove and fuel bottles, ratty shorts and tee-shirts laid out to air. Not a target, he decided, and moved on.

Next, he came upon a couple in sleeping bags laid just off the trail. They were young, probably' go see the world' types. They slept on inflatable air mattresses. All the comforts of home.

Harris got up close, no more than ten yards from them, before he finally decided to move on. He could tell the girl was a looker, though. Blonde, cute face, maybe twenty. Just watching her sleep with her boyfriend got his jets-going pretty good. They were a definite maybe.

He saw a second couple already up and exercising near their tent about a quarter mile farther on. They had high-tech internal frame packs, $200 hiking boots, and looked like snooty city slicks. He liked them as potential targets, mainly because he disliked them so much immediately.

Not far past the couple's camp, he came upon a single male hiker. This guy was definitely in for the long haul. He had a high-tech pack which looked light and tight. He would probably be carrying dried food, trail mix, protein drink powder fresh food was too heavy and difficult to haul around on your back all day. His wardrobe would be no frills too nylon shorts, tank tops, maybe long underwear for the cold nights.

Harris stopped and watched the single hiker's camp for a couple of minutes. He let his heartbeat slow and controlled his breathing. Finally, he slipped right into the man's camp. He wasn't afraid, and he never doubted himself. He took what he needed. The hiker never stirred from his sleep.

Harris checked his sports watch and saw it was only 5:50. So far, so good. He walked back to the trail, then he began to jog again. He felt invigorated, excited about the hunt and kill out here on the nature trail. Man, he wanted to kill somebody bad. Man or woman, old or young, it didn't much matter.

The next camp he came upon was close another couple, still asleep in a two-person dome tent. Harris couldn't help thinking how easy it would be to take them out right now. Ducks on a pond. Everybody was so vulnerable and trusting out here. What a bunch of loonies. Didn't they ever read the funny papers? There were killers on the loose in America, lots of them.

A little less than a mile beyond, he reached the camp of another family. Someone was already up.

He hid in the pine trees and watched. A fire had been started and was throwing up sparks. A woman of about forty was futzing around with a rucksack. She wore a red Speedo swimsuit and seemed in good physical shape -well-muscled arms and legs; a nice ass, too. She called out,“Wakee, wakee!”

Moments later, two shapely teenage girls emerged from the larger tent. They had on one-piece bathing suits, and they were slapping their lithe bodies with their arms and hands, trying to get warm in a hurry, trying to 'wakee, wakee'.

“Mama bear and two baby bears,” Brownley Harris muttered. “Interesting concept.” Maybe too close to the murders at Bragg, though.

He watched as the three women huddled for a moment around the fire, then took off at a run. Soon he could hear a chorus of war whoops and screams, then laughter and loud splashes as they hit the small brook that ran directly behind their camp.

Brownley Harris moved quickly and silently through the trees until he reached a choice point where he could watch the mother and her pretty daughters frolic in the cold stream. They sure reminded him of the women in the massacre in Fayetteville, outside Fort Bragg. Still, they could be the secondary target.

He returned to his camp at a little past six-thirty. Griffin had prepared breakfast: eggs, bacon, plenty of coffee. Starkey was sitting in a familiar lotus position, thinking and plotting. He opened his eyes before Harris announced himself. “How'd you do?” he asked.

Brownley Harris smiled. “We're right on schedule, Colonel. We're good. I'll describe the targets while we eat. Coffee smells good. Hell of a lot better than napalm in the morning.”