Free Savage Run by C. J. Box

him. He did not want to disappoint either Charlie or his employers, but this thing was getting bigger and
    more complicated than he had thought it would be. What was he supposed to do, run across the grass and hit Powell in the back of the head with a hammer? Shoot the guy in the dark? What?
    "He's up and he's in," Charlie said, lowering the binoculars.
    The Old Man watched as the porch light went on. They followed Powell's drunken progress through his house as he switched on lights. First the kitchen, then the bathroom, then the living room. They waited.
    "He's probably passed out on his couch," Charlie whispered after nearly an hour.
    "What is the plan?" the Old Man asked, trying to suppress the panic he felt rising up in him.
    Oddly Charlie Tibbs smiled, showing his perfect teeth, and turned in his seat. The smile made the Old Man fee! better, but it also disturbed him in a way he couldn't put his finger on.
    "Later .. . ," Charlie began, the word drowned out by the ram. "I'll tell you later when you need to know."
    wearing A rain suit with a hood that slipped over his clothes and covered his face, the Old Man waited in the soaking undergrowth until Charlie Tibbs reached the front door. When Charlie signaled him, the Old Man raised his scoped and silenced .22 rifle and shot out the back porch light with a sound no louder than a cough. The Old Man had shot from an angle so the bullet would pass cleanly through the lamp and lightbulb and off into the night. It would not be wise to leave a bullet lodged in the siding that might be found by investigators. Now the outside of the expensive home of Hayden Powell was once again dark. With a tiny flashlight in his mouth, the Old Man located the spent brass casing that had been ejected from the rifle into the mud. He pocketed it while he walked across the lawn toward the darkened back door. While the tire tracks and footprints would be washed away in the driving rain, bullet casings could be recovered.
    Careful to not lose his footing on the ram-slick steps, the Old Man entered the house. Charlie had been right about Powell not locking the back door after him.
    Inside it was warm and dry The Old Man stood in the kitchen by the back door and concentrated on regulating his breathing. He did not want to be heard. The pounding of the ram was muffled inside the house. As he stood, a puddle formed near his boots from the wet rain suit.
    The Old Man surveyed the room and then positioned himself behind the kitchen island with his back to the door he had entered. The kitchen island was built so that the end of it pointed to the living room. His job was to block the back door while Charlie entered the front. From where the Old Man stood he could see down a hallway into a sunken living room sparsely filled with leather furniture. A television set was on and the channel tuned to what looked like the local news. He could see half of the front doorway, and clearly heard Charlie knock on it.
    The Old Man swallowed and readied his rifle. He was instructed not to use it unless absolutely necessary. According to Charlie, Powell would never even make it out of the living room, much less into the kitchen.
    Charlie knocked again, this time louder. The Old Man heard a couch squeak and the back of Hayden Powell came into view. Powell was younger and more powerfully built than the Old Man had guessed. Powell's hair was awry and he shuffled to the front door in his socks. He had been sleeping on the couch. Once again, Charlie had been exactly right.
    Powell asked who was at the door. The Old Man couldn't hear what Charlie shouted back. Powell squinted into the peephole and the Old Man could only imagine what Powell was thinking: There is an old cowboy standing on my front porch.
    The front door was not open three inches before Charlie's fist, wrapped in thick brass knuckles beaded with rain, smashed through
    the opening, flush into Hayden Powell's face. The power of the blow threw Powell straight back and he