"

  Provided he ended up with the room, Jake didn't mind the mix-up. Gave him a chance to make a scene. By the time he was through here, everyone on the Belvedere's morning shift would remember the loudmouth with the golf bag.

  "Oh, yes," said the clerk. "Here it is. Room ten-seventeen. There's a note here to hold it for you."

  "Damn straight," Jake said. "Guaranteed it with my credit card last week."

  "That you did, sir."

  The rest of the registration process was completed without a hitch and the deskman rang for the bellhop. A rail-thin black guy appeared and picked up Jake's suitcase. But when he held his hand out for the golf bag, Jake waved him off'.

  "No way, man. These are Pings. Nobody touches these suckers but me."

  When they got to 1017, Jake tipped the bellhop a quarter. The guy stared at the coin in his hand for a moment, then started bowing.

  "A quarter! Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you! A whole quarter! I'll call the wife and kids right now! Wait till they hear! A whole quarter r

  Jake closed the door and smiled. One more person guaranteed to remember the bastard in 1017.

  He went to the window and raised the sash. Two blocks downtown and across the street he saw workers putting the finishing touches on the speaker's platform.

  Excellent.

  He closed the curtain and rubbed his belly. He'd already had breakfast as Jake Nacht two doors up the hall in room 1021 but he was still hungry. Nerves.

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  55

  Because this wasn't going to be an ordinary hit. This was going to be an assassination.

  Jake had known that when he took the job, but it was reinforced in no uncertain terms when he turned on the TV and saw United States senator Stanley Weingarten's face staring back at him. He was on something called the Face the Nation.

  Jake sat down and tried to watch the show.

  It wasn't easy. Hard to believe people actually sat around on Sunday mornings and ate up this drivel. Talking heads. Empty tzk-ing heads. And the emptiest head of the three was the guest, Whiny Weingarten.

  The target.

  As Jake began unpacking his rifle from the golf bag, he forced himself to listen. The way Whiny was running off at the mouth you'd think he knew he was making his last TV appearance today. His last live appearance, anyway. He ratded on like he wanted to get everything said at once.

  And he made every lie sound so damn sincere.

  Jake worked the freshly lubed bolt back and forth. He'd almost be willing to ice this phony bastard for free.

  Almost.

  Another of Sarge's rules: Don't get involved. Never let yourself feel anything for the target. Like or dislike, either way could mean trouble. The problem with like was obvious—you might start thinking of your target as something more than a target. A target had to stay just that: a target. And dislike could undermine you by getting your juices flowing and tripping you off on some elaborate embellishments; instead of concentrating on getting the target dead, you try to do him in some way that leaves him humiliated as well.

  But something about United States senator Whiny Weingarten made Jake want to find a way to ice him when his pants were down. Watching the fat phony sit there and ooze sincerit' and exhausted idealism as he jawed about ''giving up the good fight" made Jake's gorge rise.

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  Unable to take any more, he switched off the set and began preparing the room.

  Everything was pretty much in place by the time a small crowd began to gather in front of the podium. The door to the perch room was locked and chain-bolted, with a chair angled under the inside knob, and a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the outside. The gun-nut paraphernalia was spread out on the table. The Guyer AmEx card and the 1017 key were there too. The key to 1021 was snug in his pocket so he'd be sure to have it on him when he bailed out of here.

  Room 1021 was his escape hatch.

  After a hit, every instinct told you to run, to put distance—as much as possible as fast as possible—between you and the perch. If you were out in the open or even down on the street, that was a good instinct.

  But not in a hotel. If the cops finger the hotel as the source of the shots, they'll be all over it in minutes. Sure, you could get lucky. They could go off in the wrong direction, leaving you to cruise down in the elevator, waltz through the lobby, have the doorman call you a cab, and be halfway home before they found the right building. But Jake didn't believe in luck. Good luck was the result of careful planning. Bad luck resulted from leaving something to chance. And the way Jake saw it, the worst thing that could happen was to make your hit, head for the exit, and find the place surrounded by cops. There you are, wandering the hotel halls without a room you can call your own. When the cops ask you your business here, what do you say.> If you tell them you're a guest, they'll want to see your room key. If you say you're visiting, they'll want to know who. And when you come up empty on both . . .

  You are Sylvester with Tweety feathers on your mouth—suspect number one.

  But if you've got another room, registered under a separate

  NIGHTKILL

  5?

  name, you can step out into the hall and demand to know what all the ruckus is about.

  Pulling off the phony mustache, Jake flushed it down the toilet, then tossed the black wig out the window and watched it flutter down toward the street. The shades, watch cap, and Irish knit sweater he had already dropped in a corner. He hadn't bothered to change the jeans—everybody wore jeans—and of course the gloves were still on his hands; he'd drop those in the hall as soon as he left the room. And then he'd be a clean-shaven, sandy-haired man in a checkered shirt who bore no resemblance whatsoever to that bastard who'd rented 1017.

  Jake stepped to the window and adjusted the focus on his scope. Beautiftil morning for a hit. Damn near perfect, in fact. High, bright sun, rising behind him, just clearing the buildings to shine now directly on the podium. He'd have no trouble locking in on the target. And because of the ten-story downward path of the bullet, the elevation adjustment would be negligible.

  He glanced at the flag atop a nearby federal building, one that would no doubt be flying at half-mast this time tomorrow. It hung limp on its pole. Excellent. A typical August day in New York, with no need for windage adjustment.

  Jake had left the window open and the curtains drawn to within inches of each other. He kept the muzzle a good six inches back from the gap as he sighted through to the street below. He'd brought a Steyr-Manlicher SSG-PII for the job—bolt action, chambered for .308. Usually he liked a .223 but this hit was going to run a good four hundred meters. The .223 wasn't reliable enough over three hundred. The SSG-PII had a green plastic stock and a long, heavy, sighdess barrel for greater muzzle velocity and accuracy. The scope was a steel-tube 6-power Kahler ZF 69 which Jake had zeroed in to one-half MOA. A beautiftil weapon. A shame he'd have to leave it behind. But that was something else he'd learned from Sarge.

  Jake rested the rifle's bipod on the table he'd moved up against

  SB

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  the windowsill; the stock was rock steady against his cheek as he centered the scope's crosshairs on the mayor's nose.

  Okay. The perch was ready. All he had to do now was wait for the opening remarks to run their course and for Tweety to step up to the podium.

  As it always did just before a hit, Jake's thoughts veered toward his last day with Sarge.

  He hated remembering that day.

  B

  Throughout the summer of Jake's sixteenth year, Sarge trained him in the fine points of precision fire with the AR-10 semiautomatic. He'd sit beside him with a spotter scope and spur Jake on. He was relentless, ceaselessly urging Jake to push his weapon to its limits of accuracy, and then go beyond those to find his own.

  "You're almost there, Jake," he'd say. 'T want you down to one MOA. I know you can do it."

  Jake would nod and keep firing. One MOA—one minute of action—came down to shooting a one-inch group at one hundred yards. Jake would have thought such a feat impossible if he hadn't seen Sarge do it again and again.

  So Jake kept after it. If Sarge thought he could do it, then maybe he could. What he didn't understand was the vague sense of urgency he was picking up from Sarge. Nothing he could pin down, but he couldn't escape the feeling that Sarge was training him for a purpose. And he didn't feel he could ask. Sarge would let him in on things in his own good time.

  Despite all the practice, Jake never tired of shooting. In fact, when Sarge wasn't pushing his skills with the rifle, Jake was out on his own, practicing with the Mauser Sarge had given him for

  UU F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  his last birthday. He loved that pistol, loved the look and feel of it, and loved the fact that it was a gift from Sarge. He took it with him whenever they journeyed into the pines.

  But throughout the summer it was not his progress toward Sarge's elusive 1 MOA that haunted him, but the slow progress of the adoption proceedings. The interviews, the home inspections, the physical exams—they never seemed to end. Jake had never imagined that anything so intangible could become so important. He couldn't remember wanting anything so much in his life.

  Without warning, two days after Labor Day, the papers arrived in the mail. The adoption had gone through. Jake was no longer an orphan. It was now official: He was Jake Nacht.

  Sarge took Jake and Mrs. Nacht—it would be a long time before he'd be able to call her Mom, if ever—into Philly for dinner at Pier 5. Sarge drank too much and Mrs. Nacht had to drive home. She wasn't too happy about it. She didn't seem too happy about anything, including the adoption, but she was hard to read. Not that it made a bit of difference how she felt. He was Sarge's son now. That was all that mattered. He didn't care who his mother was.

  Two weeks later, Jake shot his first 1 MOA.

  Sarge seemed happier than when the adoption papers had come in.

  "Forget about school today," Sarge said at breakfast on the morning of Jake's sixteenth birthday. He was dressed in camouflage fatigues. This was the first time Jake had seen him in anything even vaguely military. "We're hitting the barrens."

  "More practice.>" Jake tried to sound up but he'd been hoping for something else.

  "You kidding.> On your birthday.> Not a chance. Bring your Ruger and scope, and bring anything else that suits you, and we'll do some traveling."

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  El

  That old .22? Jake had been working out with the AR-10 the past half year.

  "What're we doing, Sarge.'"

  Sarge winked. 'Til tell you when we get there." As Jake started to turn, Sarge tossed him a package. ''And put these on."

  Jake tore open the package. It contained a set of camouflage fatigues, just like Sarge's.

  The air \'as cool, the sun was high and bright in a cr'stalline sky, and Sarge had taken him deeper into the barrens than he'd ever been. He stopped the jeep in the middle of nowhere— truly the middle of nowhere—and fixed Jake with an icy stare.

  "All right, Jake Nacht. Time for you to prove yourself"

  "Prove.'" WTiat was Sarge getting at.-

  "Time to prove you're worthy of the name."

  "I don't get it, Sarge."

  "I gave you my name, son. You're Jake Nacht. Now you've got to prove you desere to earn' it."

  "How.-"

  "By kiUing me."

  A chill stole over Jake. "What are you talking about, Sarge.'"

  "Do I have to spell it out for you.'" Sarge said. He seemed to be getting annoyed. "I've taught 'ou ever^thing I know. Now it's time to lay it on the line and prove what kind of student you'xe been. You and me, out here, to the death."

  "You're kidding."

  Sarge turned on him, teeth clenched, tace reddening. "No, I ain't kidding, buddy boy. This is the real thing. Tljc Most Dan^fer-ous Game in real life. I've been waiting a long time for you, Jake. You're the best I've seen since the war. You've come further in two years than most people can come in a lifetime. When you hit that one MOA I knew you were ready for me. So now it's time. The only thing against you is you ain't blooded. So I'm gonna be fair. I'm gonna take your puny little Ruger .22 LR and let you

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  have tiie AR-10. It's semiautomatic, it's thirty-aught-six. That gives you the edge in speed and power. But I'm still gonna get you."

  Jake was speechless. What was Sarge talking about.>

  "Awww," Sarge said. "Don't look so surprised and mystified. Why do you think I spent all that time with you.^ Because I wanted a son.> Shit, no! I wanted a target—one who could shoot back. I'm sick of all these sitting ducks. I'd be back in the war now if they'd take me, but they won't. So I have to setde for the next best thing. I've spent two years training you, Jake. Now it's time for payback."

  "You've got to be kidding!"

  "Kidding.^ You think I'm fucking kiddingV He grabbed the Ruger .22 and pulled a box of shells from his vest pocket. He opened the box and tossed one of the bullets to Jake. "Here's what I'll be shooting at you."

  Jake caught the bullet and stared at it: a .22 long rifle. This couldn't be real. It was all a dream, a nightmare. Had to be.

  "Sarge . . . .>"

  But Sarge was pulling another box of shells from another pocket and tossing the whole thing to Jake.

  "And this is what you'll be shooting at me."

  A box of 180-grain .30-06 Federal Hi-Shok soft points. These were heavy, killer rounds.

  "You get the big, semiauto centerfire, I get the bolt-action rim-fire. That gives you one hell of an advantage."

  "Advantage.^ I don't want an advantage, Sarge."

  "Well, you're gonna get one, and believe me you're gonna need it."

  "What did I do, Sarge.>" Jake heard his voice begin to quaver. He tried to steady it but he couldn't. This was tearing him apart. "Did I do something wrong.^ Just tell me and I'll undo it. I'll make it up to you."

  "What'd you do.>" Sarge shoved a round into the chamber of

  NIGHTKILL

  63

  the Ruger and rammed the bolt home. "You became a great shot. You became the most dangerous game. If you hadn't, this wouldn't be happening."

  The jeep seemed to be shrinking around them, squeezing out all the air, even though the windows were open.

  "But you adopted me. Why.> Just to kill me.>"

  "Nah. I did that because the social workers sort of forget about a kid after he's adopted. And I did it for cover, just in case someone does come around asking about you. Imagine our dismay: Me and the Missus go ahead and adopt you, and how do you repay us.> By running off and disappearing as soon as you're sixteen. What an ingrate."

  Jake fought back tears. "I can't believe this."

  "Believe it, kid." Sarge pointed the rifle at him. "Now get out."

  "No. I won't do this."

  Sarge fired the rifle and Jake recoiled, startled by the blast, by the heat of the muzzle flash so close, by the tug of the bullet ripping through a fold of his shirt a hairbreadth from his skin. He toppled out of the jeep, scattering the .30-06 shells around him. Sarge leaned across the passenger seat and slid the cased AR 10 out the door. It landed on Jake.

  "You've got a twenty-shot magazine, Jake. I suggest you load it to capacity."

  Jake scrambled to his feet, leaving the rifle on the ground. His mind raced. He had to find a way out of this, a way to snap Sarge back to his senses.

  "Sarge, please. You're breaking one of your own rules."

  Sarge stared at him. "Yeah.> What.>"

  "You said. Anytime you kill something, you should have a good reason for doing it. I can't kill you, Sarge. I don't have any reason."

  "Yes, you do," Sarge said. His eyes sparked fire as he glared at Jake. "Because it's the only way you're gonna see tomorrow. Now, I'm gonna drive a few miles back east, far enough so's it'll take me about an hour to walk back here. You be ready for me."

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  "I won't. I can't."

  "You'd better. I come back and find you standing liere where I left you, I'll pick you off like a pinecone. Got that.> So do yourself a favor: Be ready for me. And shoot to kill. That's what I'll be doing."

  He threw the jeep into gear, U-turned in a spray of sand, and roared out of sight.

  Jake didn't know how long he stood there in the sandy clearing, sobbing, waiting for Sarge to come back and tell him it was all a joke. But there was nothing ftinny about any of this.

  Maybe it was a test.

  For a while he'd been convinced it was a test. Like God and Abraham. One of his foster mothers had been a real Bible thumper, making him read passages aloud every night before bed. He remembered the story of God telling Abraham he had to sacrifice his son Isaac. He also remembered Abraham's reply in the Dylan song— Tou must be puttin^ me on!

  That's gotta be it, Sarge, Jake thought. You're putting me on, aren't you. Like God and Abraham. And you want to play God so you can step in at the last minute and say you were only testing me.

  Another sob racked his chest. Sarge was already Jake's God. He didn't have to test him.

  But deep inside Jake knew damn well this wasn't a test. Sarge hadn't been kidding. There'd been a killer gleam in his eye as he'd looked at Jake from the jeep. He intended to hunt Jake down today. Jake had to face that hideous truth. And as he did, his grief gave way to another emotion.

  He was still terrified, but now he was angry as well.

  The last two years had been a lie. Nothing but a lousy, rotten, goddamn stinking lie. And he'd fallen for it.

  Jake's rage swelled. He began pacing back and forth in the clearing, clenching and unclenching his fists. What a jerk he'd been.

  NIGHTKILL

  65

  What an idiot. The rotten bastard had played him like Santana played guitar.

  Jake screamed wordlessly at the surrounding trees. He found a dead branch and began beating it against the ground and smashing it across the trunks of the pines until he'd reduced it to kindling, then found another and beat that until it shattered, all the while screaming at the top of his lungs. He kept it up until he was hoarse and gasping for breath.