Chapter 25 - The Confession
The sniper lay sprawled on his back among the fallen pine needles, gasping for air, clutching a shattered left collarbone. His bolt-action rifle lay submerged in six inches of muddy water three feet away.
Damon stepped out of the mist, the Daniel Defense rifle held casually across his chest, the barrel pointed directly at the man’s forehead.
"Do not move," Damon said. The tone was conversational, devoid of anger, which made it ten times more terrifying.
The fallen shooter looked up into the darkness. All he could see was the outline of a broad-shouldered man in a simple flannel shirt, his face masked by shadow, his eyes reflecting the faint moonlight like obsidian stone.
"You're... you're him," the sniper wheezed, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth. "The wrestler's father."
"You're trespassing," Damon said softly. "And your team is currently incapacitated on my lawn. I have three questions. If you lie on the first, you won't live to hear the second."
"Ask," the man choked out, shivering from both shock and the bitter cold of the mud soaking into his jacket.
"Where is Marcus Vance right now?"
The sniper swallowed hard, the pain in his shattered shoulder turning his face pale under his camouflage paint. "He's at his country estate... north of town. The horse farm on Blackwood Ridge. He’s waiting for the all-clear call. He has two of his personal bodyguards with him."
"Who hired your outfit?"
"A shell LLC out of Wilmington. Vance paid half a million into an offshore escrow. He told the broker you were a nobody... a drifter who settled down here with a stolen identity. He said nobody would come looking for you."
Damon gave a faint, chilling smile in the dark. "He was half right. Nobody from the government will come looking for me. Because if they knew I was here, they wouldn't send four men with carbines. They would send an entire strike group."
The sniper's eyes widened. "Who the hell are you?"
"A parent," Damon replied simply.
He bent down, hooked his hand beneath the man’s tactical harness, and hauled him upright against the trunk of the oak tree. With quick, effortless motions, Damon used the sniper's own nylon utility cord to lash him securely to the tree trunk, knotting the cord with nautical hitches that would require a serrated blade to loosen.
"You will sit here until dawn," Damon said, looking the bound contractor in the eyes. "The temperature will drop to thirty-four degrees. You won't freeze to death, but you will suffer. If you scream, you will draw coyotes. If you remain quiet, the sheriff will find you when I call dispatch from a burner phone in three hours."
"Wait! Man, don't leave me out here!" the contractor pleaded, thrashing against the ropes, but the bindings held fast. "Vance isn't going to stop! He’s crazy! He lost his mind when you humiliated his kid in front of the whole town! He said he’d burn down your whole life!"
Damon stepped back into the shadows, his silhouette melting back into the mist.
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"Vance isn't going to burn anything," Damon's voice echoed through the trees, soft and final. "Because by dawn, Marcus Vance will no longer have a life left to burn."
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