The winter of Frankie Machine

44

Frank lies on the roof of the grain warehouse across the road, his rifle barrel resting on the lower curve of theg in the big Agricorp sign.

He places the infrared sight squarely on the kid’s forehead. He doesn’t recognize this kid, the one who’s squeezed against the door, making himself as small as possible.

Not small enough, Frank thinks.

He doesn’t know Leg Wound, either, which makes sense. He’s too young for me to have ever worked with him, Frank thinks. Or maybe that’s just a process of getting older, that everyone looks young to you.

The kid crouching in my sights is no joke. He made a mistake, but he isn’t a clown. A clown would have come running out of that room. This guy had the sense to get low and crawl out of there. Even the way he’s holding himself now-looking around, not panicking, not overreacting about his wounded crew, controlling his men-says that the kid has something.

Frank can see it in the kid’s eyes.

He’sthinking.

Thinking men are dangerous.

So take him out, Frank thinks.

You can’t afford to have this guy on your tail.

He resettles his aim and squeezes the trigger.