PROLOGUE
KILLING OLD PEOPLE WAS LIKE SHOOTING BOTTLES OFF A LOG.
So little to hold one’s attention.
Even worse, the Priority was late.
Like clockwork, the old man arrived every Friday between 6:00 and 6:30A.M., as the file expressly noted. Predictable as the squadron of yellow flies that had swarmed in half an hour ago and had been aggravating him ever since.
But not today.
Of all Fridays, the old coot decided to be late today.
Of course, if there had been any real anticipation—that thrill-of-the-hunt-ecstasy-of-success bullshit—the hour just spent in sweltering August heat wouldn’t have been so bad.
He lowered the binoculars and focused on the quiet, pastoral scene. The woodbine bushes, palmettos, and sand pines of the lake’s northeast shore provided thick cover for him, his camouflage fatigues blending perfectly. Brooks Creek meandered ahead, Eagle Lake beyond.
Hopefully, just a few more minutes and this would be over.
THE OLD MAN GRIPPED THE THROTTLE AND POWERED THE SKIFFacross Eagle Lake. His wife called the fourteen-hundred-acre basin his meandering mistress. Apt. It’d been nearly thirty years since he watched bulldozers and front-end loaders carve its banks, soil that once supported pine trees and soybeans carted all overGeorgia for fill dirt. The remaining massive borrow pit eventually filled with water, becoming a readily identifiable blue splotch on the state map.
He’d been one of the first to test its virgin expanse, hooked from the start, and he hoped one day the last sight for his tired hazel eyes would be the comforting taupe of Eagle Lake’s tranquil water.
He inspected the early-morning sky. It would be at least another hour before the sun crested the tallest pines rising from the eastern shore. No clouds lingered in sight, a tight clammy blanket of humidity the only reminder of the nasty thunderstorms from the past couple of days. But the birds and tree frogs didn’t seem to mind. Nor the insects.
Nor did he.
Ahead, he spotted the familiar break in the shore.
He released the throttle.
The outboard wound down, slowing the skiff to a crawl. He knew most Woods County fishermen avoided Brooks Creek for four practical reasons. Limited space—only fifteen feet from bank to bank. Full of mosquitoes and yellow flies. Unbearably hot and sticky most of the year.
And the gate of limbs.
Thick water oak branches corkscrewed a barricade over the entire expanse. The space between the bark and water was limited, about four feet, yielding only to a certain size and shape of boat, like his flat-bottomed skiff, bought three years ago specifically for Brooks Creek.
He allowed the outboard to die, then inched ahead using a half-horsepower trolling motor mounted to the bow.
The limbs approached.
Thirty years of visits had taught him precisely when and for how long to duck. Beyond the barrier, the creek snaked inland another twenty yards until bulging into a secluded pool, where he knew the best fishing in central Georgia waited.
HE SPOTTED THE OLD MAN.
About damn time.
Miserable heat. Bugs. Poison ivy. At least yesterday there’d been air-conditioning, though that seventy-year-old pain in the ass squirmed the whole time. He liked it, though, when they resisted a little. It added to the sport. Made for a challenge. But not too much. Bruises, cuts, blood, DNA, fingerprints. All were evidence that could definitely ruin a good thing.
He shook his head.
People were so damn predictable.
Living their whole life by precise agendas, never realizing the risks associated with regularity. Take this Priority. Every Friday, no matter what, he plopped his boat into the water at the county ramp and powered straight for Brooks Creek. Even his path across Eagle Lake was never in doubt. Like an invisible highway to the northeast, always right after dawn, staying till lunchtime. Usually, he’d take back four or five bass. Sometimes a catfish. It looked like he’d vary the routine once in a while. Maybe try the southwest shore or the east bank. No. If it’s Friday, then this must be Brooks Creek.
Damn how he loved creatures of habit.
THE OLD MAN CUT ANOTHER GLANCE AT THE EARLY-MORNING SKY.Orange and yellow hues were being rapidly replaced by azure. What a great-looking summer day. Nothing beat morning fishing, weekdays, just after dawn, all alone.
