Fatal Burn

Indian summer
The forest near Santa Lucia, California
Three years earlier
He was late.

He checked his watch and the illuminated digital face glowed eerily in the pitch-dark forest.

Eleven fifty-seven.

Hell!

He ' d never make it in time and would draw attention to himself, something he could ill afford.

Picking up his pace, he jogged along the uneven terrain, running downward in this stretch of low wooded hills, far away from civilization.

Far away from discovery.

The sounds of the night crept into his brain: the rustle of autumn leaves in the hot breeze, the snap of a dry twig beneath his hurried footsteps and the thunderous pounding of his own heart, thudding wildly, pumping adrenaline through his veins.

He sneaked a glance at his wrist, the face of his watch registering midnight. His jaw tightened. Perspiration seemed to pour from every inch of his skin and his nerves were strung tight as an assassin ' s garrote.

Slow down! Don ' t announce your presence by crashing through the underbrush like a wounded stag! Better to be a few minutes late than to destroy everything by making a clumsy racket.

He stopped, drew in several deep breaths and smelled the tinder-dry forest. Beneath his dark clothes he was sweating. From the hot night. From his exertion. From a sense of anticipation. And from fear.

He swiped at the moisture in his eyes and drew in a long, calming breath. Concentrate. Focus. Do not slip up. Not tonight.