Scott Knolls
Scott held his breath, tried to check his heart rate. One eye pressed closed, the other shoved to the scope of the rifle. The figure in the snow moved in the opposite direction, getting smaller but still within range. He adjusted his shot, just slightly. Moved the crosshairs right below the man’s left shoulder blade—a direct path to the heart.
He heard Skeeter breathing beside him. Smelled the chewing tobacco on his breath.
Snow dropped down more heavily from the gray sky, dangerously close to obscuring the target.
“Want me to take the shot?” Skeeter whispered.
Scott tensed up at the question. His brother didn’t mean for it to sound threatening, but Scott knew he had only a few seconds before he lost his shot. He grunted a no and gripped the rifle a little tighter. His finger tried to ease back the trigger, just like he’d done it a thousand times before—before when he was firing at game.
“Gonna lose him,” Skeeter whispered again.
Scott heard the strap of Skeeter’s rifle rattle and knew that his brother was lining up a shot. If he didn’t take the shot, Skeeter would do what he couldn’t. A few inches lay between fatal and nonfatal. Just a few inches of skin separated vital organs from a flesh wound. He didn’t care so much about the ramifications with the law in killing Danny—murder was murder. It was other ramifications he just couldn’t wrap his head around—taking a man down.
Skeeter’s breath quickened. Scott had only a few seconds to decide.
His extended arm that clutched the forestock of the rifle dipped down an inch or so, and he squeezed the trigger.
