The Vanishing Gary Brown (booksvooks TXT) 📖

along the path. Satisfied he had not been seen or followed, he dropped to one knee, opened the gym bag, and removed a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. The surrounding fence was gated, protected against unauthorized access by a heavy-gauge chain wound around each post and secured with a padlock. He cut off the heavy-duty lock, unraveled the safety chain, slipped inside, then closed the gate behind him and replaced the chain so as not to arouse the suspicion of a routine police patrol. Staying in the shadows, he ran to the base of the tower. The hatch leading to the main ladder was securely locked. He ascended the ladder, cut the lock, and braced the heavy metal door as he lowered it. With the knapsack over his shoulder and the handles of the gym bag clenched firmly in his teeth, he ascended the narrow passageway several hundred feet to the maintenance platform. The platform presented him with an unobstructed sprawling view of Zion Canyon and Paulo Brava. He placed the bags on the serrated metal platform, opened the knapsack, removed a rifle stock fitted with a folding bipod, a reflection-resistant blue hued barrel, night scope, barrel silencer, and two fully loaded clips. He could, if required, assemble the weapon in absolute darkness under any condition, recognizing each of the various components entirely by feel. He would not require this talent tonight. This was not a professional operation.

This was personal.

He rummaged through the bag, removed a cellular telephone, turned it on. The face of the phone cast an iridescent glow against the palm of his hand as it powered up. A single telephone number programmed into its memory flashed on the screen. He placed the phone at his feet, slid the barrel into the rifle stock, inserted the clip, fitted the silencer and night scope to the barrel, and expanded the legs of the metal bipod from the stock. Intermittent bursts of brilliant color and spectacle unfolded before him in the night sky as he inspected the weapon. First, a thunderous crackle break, then a blue streak, then green glitter, then a red break, green again, then blue chrysanthemum, then another crackle break, and finally a multi-colored showering of red, white, and blue. He watched as the Porsche backed into a parking space on the opposite side of the lot from the van, then drew back the rifle bolt and chambered a round.

“I’m going to check out the van,” Oliver said as he turned off the ignition. “If there’s a problem, call 911. Tell the police who you are. I’ve worked with every cop in town on one case or another over the years. Trust me, they won’t waste any time getting here. Sit tight. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Don’t go, Oliver,” Elaine pleaded. “This doesn’t feel right.” Before she had finished speaking, Oliver had already stepped out of the Porsche.

Oliver approached the van, thumped his fist twice against the door, then stepped back. No response. He cupped his hands against the heavily tinted windows and peered inside. Lamplight from above cast ghostly shadows within the interior and revealed several discarded coffee cups, empty cigarette packages scattered across the dashboard, and a crushed McDonald’s sandwich wrapper. A map of the San Francisco Bay Area lay open on the passenger seat. Oliver walked to the front of the van. Still warm to the touch, the metal hood crackled as it cooled and contracted. The license plates, scratched and faded, were from out of state: New Mexico.

The service road leading to the communications tower was flanked on either side by thickets of tall course grass which sloped up the hillside into the woods. Like the heartbeat of a monolithic creature, the bright red light atop the structure pulsed with metronomic precision and briefly illuminated the tree line every few seconds. Oliver walked up the path and looked around. Whoever had been driving the van was long gone. He dismissed any further notion of locating the driver. Besides, Elaine was worried. The longer he thought about it, the more he realized how foolish his actions must have seemed to her. As he turned away, a glint of light caught his peripheral vision. A reflection from somewhere on the tower. He looked up, saw nothing. He turned away from the tower and walked back to the Porsche.

From his perspective behind the lens, Oliver’s features took on a murky-green countenance. The gunman peered through the night-vision scope, adjusted the weapons cheek piece, accounted for height, wind direction, and pitch. The high-tech composite rifle had been custom designed, specifically modified to suit his individual shooting style, physical build, and the most common posture he assumed when executing a hit. He removed the magazine from the weapon and inspected it for the second time, a professional habit. Satisfied, he locked it back into place, re-adjusted the scope, and turned on the muzzle flash protection system to avoid any overlight which might otherwise impair accuracy.

The tower itself presented an unexpected problem.

Despite its heavy steel construction and deeply anchored concrete footings, it swayed, perhaps by three or four degrees, but not enough to affect a kill shot. When the opportunity presented itself, he would factor in this minor nuisance. The scope, reliable to three hundred yards at starlight illumination or two hundred and fifty yards in absolute darkness, would be perfect for target acquisition under the circumstances. It was equipped with a laser target module, which placed an infrared crosshair directly on the image tube surface of the scope. Brightness was controlled with push buttons on its side. The gunman pressed the button up. As Oliver opened the car door, his features came into sharp fluorescent focus.

4

“WELL?” ELAINE ASKED.

“Nothing,” Oliver replied. He placed the cellphone on the dashboard, then glanced across the parking lot, once more surveying the broadcast tower and its service road. “Whoever was driving the van left it in a hurry. The engine’s still hot.”

“Maybe whoever owns it works up at the