He didn’t look like a man about to die. They never did. Part of the thrill was deciding their fates. It just required a bit of planning.
“Back up. Just a little.” She focused him in her sights. He was easily twice her age, but surprisingly fit for sixty. He had matched her step for step as they skied and then snow-shoed up the steep Summit Trail. Wanted her in bed, just like every other man. She had decided long ago to use that to her advantage.
He stepped back, moving closer to the cornice slab of snow that jutted out unsupported from the cliff. She’d been careful to take the eastern approach so he wouldn’t notice the dangerous overhang. Her pulse quickened as she anticipated what was to come. Whiskey jacks flew past on reconnaissance, the small gray birds circling as they swooped in to scavenge muffin crumbs from the man’s outstretched hand.
It was a Wednesday morning and the backcountry was deserted. Another man on snowshoes had passed them in the opposite direction more than an hour ago. They were alone.
“Smile.” She zoomed in, clicked the shutter, and felt a rush of exhilaration. Hers would be the last face he would see, the last voice he would hear.
He grinned as he shifted his weight and unzipped his Gore-tex jacket. The sun shone through the low clouds, creating strange shadows across the snow.
A split second later his face contorted, confidence replaced with unmasked fear. His mouth dropped open as his eyes hollowed with terror. It was her favorite part: the hunter now the prey, and her victim knowing she had something to do with it.
Realization froze on his face as the ground beneath broke into pieces, unable to support his weight. The snow overhang snapped off the cliff, sending him hurtling down to the valley two hundred meters below.
His screams echoed down the canyon. Then silence, except for the whiskey jacks circling back for seconds.
She smiled. Almost too easy. She tossed the camera over the edge. No bullets, no mess. No trace, unless someone came looking before the next snowfall, forecasted to start in a few hours. Even if they found him before the spring melt, it would look like an accident, a tourist unfamiliar with backcountry snow conditions. She scattered the rest of the muffin to the birds. They pecked at each other, fighting for what was left of the crumbs.
Just like she once did. Not anymore. She would get her fair share, even if she had to kill for it.