THE TRASHMAN (33 page)

I put away my thrice-cleaned Enfield rifle, snapping the clasps on the metal case that holds it. I tracked the bangers from their ambush site at the bridge to a campground called Turkey Creek. I spent the day before yesterday observing them. I have a positive count of fourteen men and as many women plus a couple more. Three of the women have children in their care, one an infant. As far as I can tell, none of the women are with the bangers because they want to be.

These men aren’t ignorant elitists like the Bradford Clan. Every night, guards are posted, never in the same spots. During the day, no member of the gang goes out without a partner. These are hard men and they won’t be easy to take down. I still plan to snipe away at them, but I know they’ll find a way to evade my vision and leave the camp to hunt for me. It won’t pay to be too close to them. I find a spot to shoot from, but it’s a long distance to my targets. That’s why I traveled far from their camp. I need practice shooting at a thousand yards.

I wipe sweat from my brow, slip out of my jeans, strip to my skivvies, and wade into the cool water of the lake. Today is made to enjoy. Tomorrow the Trashman will take out the garbage.

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Terry McDonald