The pilot saw the scarred face before he saw the man. When he’d looked into the cold eyes he saw that the man had seen him note the scars, and he shrivelled under his gaze.
It may have just been the light, but the scarred man looked scary. There seemed to be something akin to wickedness in this man’s eyes, and the mental vision of it stayed with him throughout the flight.
Once during mid-flight he’d stolen a glance at the man to see if he was asleep or awake, but the man just sat quietly with a look that wasn’t a smirk or a smile. It reminded the pilot of a cat. A hungry cat before it snatched the bird.
Horton was tired; it had been a long month and he knew that he looked like shit. His frame was gaunt from weeks of bush living, and his eyes were red rimmed and sore from lack of sleep.
Age was also a factor he thought. He knew he was getting too old for the work he did. He could feel it in his bones, but for now he would have to finish what he’d started and then be free to rest. Fifteen million dollars could buy a lot of rest, he thought.
The look in the eyes of fresh faced younger pilot didn’t surprise him. He’d had over forty years to grow used to his scarred features, and had never expected other people to grow used to them in the initial seconds of a first meeting.
Horton could sense the pilot’s seemingly nervous state. His presence sometimes did that to people, and he wondered if he should speak to the young man. Maybe put him at ease, after all, it was important to Horton’s livelihood that the pilot devoted his full attention to the task at hand. He wondered as to what he might say. Nothing sprang to mind, so he put the whole idea out of his head, deciding instead that the young man would have to get over it.
It was highly likely that the pilot had more reason to stay alive than he did, Horton thought. The pilot would have agreed, and it was during the latter stage of the flight that he decided to take his girlfriend’s advice and look elsewhere for employment.
He met people from a world that he didn’t want to know on this plane, and some of them, like this one, were just plain scary.
They touched down on the outback airfield, and the pilot was relieved to see the man walking away from his plane. Sorry for whomever the man with the scars was after, and disorientated by the strange sense of foreboding that seemed to permeate his mind.
As if to free his mind, he glanced at his watch.
It was 6 am.
*****
The sun was making its way to the horizon, and its glow was easy to see as its light refracted through the cities early morning pollution.
Quinn waited, and heard the golf ball thud as it came in contact with the earth not twenty feet away, directly in front of him.
A few minutes later he heard a grunt as Sudovich dragged his golf buggy to the ball.
Quinn looked at Sudovich’s face. Of all the faces that came to mind either during sleep or awake, of people he’d killed, this one he would remember on purpose. Maybe it would help to lose, or replace the faces of those he tried to forget.
Sudovich chose a club and practiced his swing twice, then stood very still as he lined up his ball.
He stood a little side on to Quinn, who wanted his golf ball to hit square on. His finger was tightening on the trigger as Sudovich took one last look up the fairway, before settling down again to take his shot.
It was at this moment that Quinn applied more pressure, and the golf ball laden bolt left the bow with a soft twang. Sudovich’s temple allowed transfer of the impacts energy, and it reverberated through the soft tissue of his brain.
Sudovich was dead before he hit the ground, and in a much better manner than many who had gone before him on his orders.
Quinn reeled in the bolt with its golf ball, and then produced the second ball from his pocket. He wiped this second ball into the small amount of blood that was on Simon’s old ball, and threw it out onto the fairway.
He listened for a few minutes for possible witnesses. When none sounded alarm, he rose to his feet, roughed the ground where he had lain and quietly moved away into the bush.
It was impossible for him to know that with the death of Sudovich, there was no one left to control Horton.
CHAPTER 33