Retribution Read Online Free PDF Page A

not budge during that critical time, as the slightest hint of their movement or even a faint whiff of their scent would cause the game to dart back into the deep woods. One mistake and the day would be a waste.
    The cousin saw the buck first. He tapped Mike on his arm and pointed. It came out of a thicket well to the left of the field. It was a full buck, with a huge rack, eighteen separate points that he could count from this distance. The deer had to have survived several years to have gained that size and shape. Boone and Crockett dimensions, easy.
    The deer moved slowly, stopping often to search and scan the surroundings. His head turned like a natural radar. Without the deer’s movement, it would have been virtually invisible. But the movement was to the hunter’s benefit. It gave the animal away.
    â€œBiggest I ever seen,” Mike whispered.
    The cousin shushed him with a gesture, then pulled the front stock of the Remington 700 rifle under his forearm, steadying the weapon on the brace of his elbow. The Leupold scope amplified the dawn’s light, allowing him to see much farther than the human eye. The deer moved again, only a short step. It was a long shot, but with a calm hand he could make it.
    Mike watched as his cousin drew in a breath. Slowly, the shooter would let it out and squeeze. Then—
    Click.
    The sound of a safety being released on a weapon. A rifle. Every hunter ever born knew what it meant. But it wasn’t his cousin’s rifle and it wasn’t Mike’s. The sound had come from behind them.
    They both lowered their rifles.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” The cousin was pissed.
    â€œThat wasn’t me.”
    â€œFellows, you need to slowly pull back the bolts.” The voice came from behind and above them. Close. Very close.
    Mike turned to see the oak tree above the ledge. He couldn’t make out anything. His eyes followed the shape of the tree from its gnarled, barked base up to the first branches. Still, nothing. The voice was too close for it to be from farther away.
    His cousin was still pissed. Without looking the cousin called back, “You ain’t got no right to tell us what to do. We got the landowner’s permission.”
    Mike waited for the man’s response.
    â€œI am the landowner. Now turn around and get up.”
    Mike turned over on his side, and as he did, the sleeve of his hunting shirt pulled up just enough to reveal a part of a tattoo on his forearm, an anchor and a globe.
    â€œWhere’d you serve?” the man said. His voice came from somewhere near the base of the tree, but Mike still couldn’t see him.
    â€œArtillery at the Twelfth Marines,” Mike said proudly.
    â€œWho was the Twenty-fourth MEU commander?”
    Was it Mike’s imagination, or had the voice warmed a degree or two?
    â€œColonel Jordan.”
    â€œBucky Jordan?”
    â€œYes, sir. That’s what they called him.”
    The voice paused for a moment. “You two come back another day. Same exact place. Just one day. If that buck comes on this field, you can take him. But only once. And only one deer. Agreed?”
    â€œYes, sir,” said the cousin.
    Hendley repeated it. “Yes, sir .”
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    William Parker stepped away from the oak, dressed head-to-toe in the camouflage that perfectly matched the hardwood tree. The coat, gloves, hat, and pants all bore the same camouflage pattern, making him indistinguishable from the same shape and colors of the bark and limbs. He remembered the tag. It quoted Webster: Incapable of being apprehended by the mind or the senses . It was 5.11 Tactical gear, named for the difficulty of a mountain climb. Like the gear’s namesake, Parker had undertaken a 5.11d climb once. It had been called the Unfinished Symphony, a brutal two-day trek. But the 5.11 gear had handled it. And he could tell now by the confusion in the young man’s eyes that their camouflage worked equally