The boughs hung so low they were like widows’ fingers digging at the soil as if trying to reclaim their lost husbands. Shadows cloaked me. The words coming from my pocket had a stereo effect now that I was so near to one of those talking, but the little bird-like man had no idea of how close to death he was. I’d caught the gist of the radio-chatter. Discounting the young greaser, there were only two of the bastards left alive: Gant and this man called Darley. A well-placed shot, and then Gant would be seriously outnumbered if not outgunned, yet I was loath to pull the trigger. There were still so many questions unanswered that I thought about sparing the little skinhead for a minute or two while I beat some of the answers out of him. Take the shot. Do not underestimate this man. He may be small, but he’s armed and intent on harming the kids. Slip up and you’ll be one sorry bastard. I raised my SIG, aiming through the branches, zeroing in on the man’s chest. A head shot would be better, but the way it jerked about like a hen scratching for worms made for a poor target.
