Libertland Republic, Jefferson Square, Main River Beach Camp.
The black SUV, now on snow tires, followed the tread marks down the narrow dirt track hemmed in by brush. Snow scraped off the bodywork slid onto the hood and melted in the thin, capillary-like reflections on the paint.
Hidden behind the backward-sweeping dead branches, John and Murphy ducked their heads at the sound of footsteps and cut their eyes toward the two amateur adventurers passing the window. The pair walked with an odd, mincing gait; one of them, nails painted in clashing neon colors, rapped on the glass and then, for no reason at all, both of them burst out laughing.
"Fuck. What a goddamn shitshow," Daniel Murphy muttered. He cranked the window down and spat into the snow. His face twisted into the same sour scowl he wore every time he returned fire, fist clenched against his cheek like he'd been personally insulted.
"Even the rich are trash these days. John, if that was my kid I'd break both his legs."
John Hastings kept both hands on the wheel, gave two impatient blasts on the horn to hurry the lovebirds along, then rubbed his eyes. He already regretted glancing out the window, but he hadn't lost his cool.
"No point getting worked up, Murphy," he said. "Finish the job first. Then we can worry about saving whatever manhood this century's got left."
He stared straight ahead to where the river met the brown sludge of the bank. A cigarette butt flicked out, hissed once, and died in the shallows. Two plainclothes bodyguards lounged by the plywood cabin. One of the big guys kept rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, like something had crawled up there and wouldn't come out.
"Real fucking amateurs," Murphy said. He fished the binoculars out of the glove box and swept the tree line behind the cabin. On the slope above the camp stood a ten-story birdwatching tower. He unfolded the map, measured roughly with a ruler. The sightlines would easily reach the Jefferson Square residences in the distance.
"Could be somebody else's hired muscle. We need to make sure before we spook anybody." He shot John a look. "Old way?"
"Old way."
Murphy dropped his seat back, unbuckled, drew the Glock from the small of his back, and twisted the suppressor on with a quick reverse click.
The black car swung around the riverbend and rolled toward the camp. The two bodyguards, who had been leaning against a post chatting, straightened up, hands drifting behind them to their guns. They watched warily as the sedan eased to a stop.
They waved for John to lower the window. The more alert of the two leaned in.
"Keep it moving. No parking here."
John rested his arm on the door frame, friendly as you like.
"We've got an invitation from Mrs. Longcharles."
The bodyguards traded a glance. The big one sniffed hard, still not quite right, and muttered to his partner.
"That old bitch say anything to us?"
"Nah. Call it in?"
"Fuck it. They'd have a card. Only a couple of companies use this route."
"Yeah, I'll handle it."
The clearer-headed guard gripped the window sill, his accent thick and clumsy.
"We need to check your IDs."
John set the handbrake and gave them a casual wave.
"Come on over."
The moment both bodyguards stepped close, he released the seat latch and leaned back. Murphy sat up fast, hands already together in front of his chest, the silenced Glock locked in a tight two-handed grip.
"Smile."
Two soft mechanical clicks, two wet thuds. The bodyguards only registered the bright muzzle flash before the world dropped out from under them.
John and Murphy dragged the dead weight, popped the trunk, and snow poured in against the backlight.
"Jesus, these assholes are heavy," Murphy grunted.
"No shit," John said. Then he caught an old woman with a double-barreled shotgun walking past in the rear-view and elbowed Murphy hard.
"Shit."
They slammed the trunk shut, leaning their full weight on the lid, and gave the old lady an easy smile.
"Bag any deer?" she called.
John and Murphy looked at each other, then answered at almost the same second, slightly out of sync:
"Yeah—two."
John spread his hands with mock modesty; Murphy flashed a cheerful V-sign.
"Oh, lucky you," she said, and walked on empty-handed into the camp.
Only after she was gone did they finally get the trunk latched.
"Was she making a joke or was that for real?" Murphy asked.
"Beats me. Sounded straight." John clapped him on the shoulder. "Grab your gear and head up to the bird tower. I'll clean up here." He opened the rear door, pulled the long gun bag from under the seat, and tossed it over. "If anybody asks on the way, tell 'em you're out for deer."
Murphy slung the bag across his back and gave the tailgate a pat.
"That part's true, chief."