Mercer was down. Conscious, bleeding, still alive, but badly down.
He couldn’t hear anything for the roaring in his ears, the burning in his lungs. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but all that did was provoke a spasm of pain that wrenched his entire upper body. As it rolled over him, he realised he couldn’t feel his legs.
He lay panting, aware of an overwhelming coldness that reached into his gut and was spreading slowly upwards. In a panic, he clutched at his stomach. His hands came away greasy.
He twisted his head, saw Richard Sibson lying a few metres away. He could see half the CSI’s face. His eye was open, staring, already beginning to glaze.
Mercer tried to scream, but could only manage a gurgle more animal than human, cornered, feral. He fought to rise, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the soft earth. Something jarred at his right hand, causing another spike of pain. Clumsily, he raised into view and found a nail speared through his palm like a crucifixion, blackened and hot to the touch.
Shrapnel. He gripped it in his other hand, pulled it loose with a snarl and threw it away, noticed small fires burning at the edges of his vision, patches of scorched earth.
He realised he could smell charred flesh like the last outbreak of Foot and Mouth when they’d burned whole farms of cattle in the open fields.
And suddenly he was assailed by memories of old family barbecues; he and Angela as children, teenagers; attending her wedding many years ago, and her memorial service only this morning. They hadn’t yet released the body. He had a terrible sensation that he would not survive to see her buried.
A pair of booted feet came into view. He lifted his head in hope but saw a tall apparition in full camouflage, a strange other-earthly figure, draped in strips of rusty brown cloth and bits of dead conifer. A perfect match to the barren ground beneath the trees…
We were looking the wrong way, he realised dully. We were looking for a long-range killer. Ignored what was right under our noses.
He watched the boots move alongside Sibson, deliberate, without haste. They stopped, and the man leaned into view, placed two fingers briefly against the empty pulse point.
Mercer saw him rise, the boots twist in his direction. He knew what came next. The blood was in his mouth now, too thick to swallow. He wanted to be brave, but all he felt was a desperate fear.
I’m not ready!
“They were none of them ready,” said a deep voice from somewhere above, and he realised he’d voiced the craven thought. Famous last words. He squinted up through tears to the distance face, bearded and remote.
The last thought that went through Mercer’s head was one of total bewilderment. He opened his mouth, his voice a rusty remnant.
“Who in God’s name…are you…?”