The Codex

78

During the twelve hours Sally had lain behind the tree trunk, her thoughts had, for some reason, turned to her father. That last summer of his life he had taught her how to shoot. After he died, she had continued to go down to the bluffs to practice shooting apples and oranges, and later pennies and dimes. She had gotten to be an excellent shot, but it was a useless skill — she had no interest in competition or hunting. She had simply enjoyed it. Some people liked to bowl, some liked Ping-Pong — she liked to shoot. Of course, in New Haven it was the most politically incorrect skill of all. Julian was horrified when he found out. He made her promise to give up shooting and keep it a secret — not because he was against guns but because it was déclassé. Julian. She pushed him out of her mind.

She shifted her cramped thighs and wiggled her toes, trying to limber up the stiffened muscles. She gave another handful of nuts to Hairy Bugger, who was still sitting grumpily in his vine cage. She was glad he had been there to keep her company these past hours, even if he was in a foul mood. The poor thing loved his freedom.

Bugger gave a squeak of alarm, and Sally was instantly alert. Then she heard it: some distant shots from the White City, a faint burst from an automatic weapon, then a second. With the binoculars she scanned the forest on the far side of the gorge. There were more shots, and still more, growing louder. A few minutes went by, and then she saw movement.

It was Tom. He had appeared at the edge of the cliffs, running. Philip and Vernon emerged out of the jungle ahead of him, supporting a wounded man between them — an old man in rags, Broadbent. Borabay was the last to appear, closest to the bridge.

There were more shots, and she now spied Hauser coming out of the trees from behind, flushing them out and driving them like game toward the bridge.

She lowered the binoculars and raised the gun, watching the drama through the scope of the Springfield. It couldn’t be a worse situation. The Broadbents and Borabay were about to be trapped on the bridge. But they had no other choice, with Hauser behind them and the chasm to one side. They hesitated at the bridgehead, then ran out onto the span. Hauser was out of the trees and shouting to the soldiers on the far side, who kneeled and fired warning shots.

In a moment all five of the Broadbents, including Borabay, were trapped in the middle of the bridge, with Hauser and four soldiers at one end and four at the other. Totally trapped. The firing died down and all was silent.

Hauser, with a grimace on his face, now began walking along the precarious bridge toward them, his weapon leveled.

Sally felt her heart hammering in her chest. Her moment had come. Her hands were shaking, sweating. She remembered her father. Calm your breathing. Allow your airflow to stop. Find your heartbeat. Shoot in between.

Sally aimed at Hauser as he strolled along the bridge. The bridge was swaying, but she felt her chances of scoring a hit were better than fifty-fifty. They would be even better once he stopped walking.

Hauser advanced to within a hundred feet of the Broadbents and paused. She could kill him — she would kill him. She centered his torso in her crosshairs, but she did not squeeze the trigger. Instead, she asked herself: What will happen after I kill Hauser?

The answer wasn’t hard to figure out. This was not The Wizard of Oz, and the Honduran soldiers on each side of the bridge would not lay down their guns saying, “Hail, Dorothy!” These were brutal mercenaries. If she shot Hauser, the soldiers would almost certainly open fire and massacre all the Broadbents on the bridge. There were ten soldiers — four at her end and now six at the other — and she couldn’t hope to pick them all off, especially the six at the far end, who were virtually out of range. The chamber of the Springfield held only five shots, and when those were done she would have to pull back the bolt and manually reload five more, a long process. And she only had ten rounds anyway.

Whatever she did had to be done in five shots.

She felt a sense of panic. She had to think of a plan, a way to bring about an outcome where they all survived. Hauser was swaggering toward them with his rifle, and he clearly intended to kill them. Yes, she would have to kill him, and then it would be all over for the Broadbents.

Her mind reeled. There would be no misstep here, no second chance. She had to get this right. She played every option she could think of through her head, but they all ended the same way, with the Broadbents dead. Her hand shook; the figure of Hauser jittered in the scope. If I kill Hauser, they’re dead. If I don’t kill Hauser, they’re dead.

She watched helplessly as Hauser aimed his weapon. He was smiling. He looked like a man about to enjoy himself.