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“It’s just my shoulder. I’m still breathing,” Beaudry said.
“Hang tough, Chief. I’ll get help,” Cameron said, and ran through the woods toward where Beaudry had parked the cruiser. As soon as he reached the car, he was on the radio. “This is Special Agent Cameron of the FBI. I have an officer down at the Wilson place. I do not have a specific location, just follow the road through the woods ’til you hear the river. I need an ambulance and backup. Over.”
The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio.
“I have your location via satellite. Am dispatching backup and ambulance ASAP. Over and out.”
* * *
Tate was running through the trees without caution. He couldn’t get a clear shot at the shooter, and didn’t want to stop and take aim for fear of losing sight of him in the heavy woods. The man was at least thirty yards ahead and running in an awkward lope. Tate’s legs were longer, though, and he was gaining ground when all of a sudden the shooter spun and got off a half-dozen rounds.
Tate sidestepped a fallen log and took cover behind a tree to return fire, but the man had already disappeared.
“No, you don’t, you son of a bitch,” Tate muttered, and bolted forward.
Within seconds he caught sight of his quarry again, now running in an easterly direction toward Jeff Wilson’s house. Tate’s heart skipped a beat as he thought of the vulnerable old woman alone in that house. She would have heard the gunfire and no matter what she did to protect herself, she would either be the killer’s next target, or his hostage. Tate needed to get there first. He started running parallel to the route he’d seen the shooter take. He had to either catch up or cut him off before he claimed another victim.
* * *
The shooter ducked behind a trio of pines to see where the Fed was, and when he no longer saw him, he grinned, thinking he’d either lost him or winged him, too.
They would be calling in backup, though. He needed to get out before they showed up, but to do this right, he wanted to make his mark, just like the Stormchaser. They would be talking about him on the news, too, when they found the old woman. He would put a bullet right between her eyes. That would put him on the map.
His hip was burning, and he could feel the blood running down his leg. One of the Feds’ shots had creased him, but he wouldn’t let that slow him down. He lengthened his stride, assuming the chaos he’d left behind him would give him enough time to do the deed. The ground was soft and the brush was thick, but he knew where he was and kept moving in a straight line. When he got his first glimpse of the house through the trees, his pulse kicked.
He burst out of the woods and into the clearing around without caution. His entire focus was on the old woman standing on the porch. He could see her staring off toward the river with her hands clutched up against her belly.
He grinned. Just a little bit closer and she would be victim number three. A few seconds later he stopped, shouldered the rifle and took aim.
Shots rang out, one almost on top of the other.
The old woman screamed as a bullet hit the wall of her house about six feet to her left. She ran back inside and locked the door behind her.
The shooter found himself belly down on the ground, the rifle only inches away from his fingers, but he could no longer feel them. Then all of a sudden someone rolled him from his front to his back. He looked up into the face of the Fed and groaned.
“You killed me,” he mumbled. “I would’a been better than him.”
Tate was breathing hard as he stared down into Leon Mooney’s face. Here was the missing volunteer, but the moment Leon opened his mouth, he realized this was not the scenario they’d expected.
“Better than who?” Tate asked.
“The Stormchaser. I would’a been better than him.”
Tate’s gut knotted. A copycat killer. Damn it. He knelt down and felt the man’s pulse. It was thready and uneven.
“I’m cold,” Leon said. “Did you call an ambulance for me? I don’t wanna die.”
“Neither did the people you shot,” Tate said.
Leon’s eyes were glazing over. “He was the best. If I could’a had more time, I might have beat him. I just didn’t have Katrina.”
“Beat who, Leon? Did you know him? Do you know who the Stormchaser is? Who’s Katrina? Who is she?”
“Guessed. Saw him watching. Saw him cut your woman.”
Tate grabbed him by the shoulders. “Who? Say his name! Who is he?”
Leon shook his head. “Can’t. That’s not how you play—”
