Standing up, he took out the heavy pistol once again, aimed carefully, and put a 9 mm bullet right between the eyes. The body jumped with the impact. The job was done, his pledge fulfilled.
Kyle Swanson looked straight up into the falling snow. He just wanted the flakes to wash over him and the cold wind to take him away, to fly him through that steel-gray sky. The pistol in his hand was the ticket that could take him away from all of this. One more squeeze of the trigger was all that would be required. He stood like a statue, not a muscle moving, for several minutes, and eventually a fragment of the Robert Frost poem swam into his thoughts: The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.
He sighed heavily. No. I won’t be dying here, and not today. He holstered the weapon and immediately switched his thoughts back to the routine of finishing the job. He had to burn the body beyond recognition and torch the cabin and hike out to the landing zone for helicopter pickup. Miles to go.
Jack Coughlin
Donald A. Davis
