Harry woke up when something ran over his leg. He rubbed his eyes, swearing to himself. He’d fallen asleep on spite of his best intentions. He glanced at his watch. It was just before two, the moon was full and silver in the sky, and he could see almost as well as if it was day, except where there were shadows. Wait a minute. He was supposed to meet Sophie at one. Where was she? The sound of splashing from the river below distracted him. He leaned out from his hiding place and looked down. Two black clad figures were climbing out of a rubber raft in the shallows on his side of the river, not far down stream. The raft carried some cargo, a bulky lump under a tarp. It had to be the red team, Harry thought. He rose from his hiding place and headed for the path that would take him down to the river’s edge. He stopped for a moment, reconsidering. Sophie had not said how many people were on the red team: she had just let him assume that there were two, the same as themselves. But there were more….
Harry left the path and made his way through the rocks. In minutes, he was close enough to hear their breathing. He pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the nearest figure, who was removing the tarp from the object in the raft. He sighted down his arm and let his breath out. He squeezed the trigger. There was a satisfying load explosion, and the smell of burning gunpowder. The figure jerked upright and slumped to the ground. Very, realistic, Harry thought, and drew a bead on the other man. The other man was pointing his pistol in Harry’s general direction, and he fired at the same instant Harry threw himself to the ground. Thus, the bullet aimed in Harry’s direction passed through the small pack he wore on his back and not through his head. Harry rolled to his right, away from the raft and was on his feet running through the scrub brush before he had time to figure it out. Then he did.
To be continued…
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