Thirst No. 3 by Christopher Pike

listening to what follows. He loads it with a clip, screws on a silencer, cocks it, and slips it under the back of his belt.
    He’s outside a minute later, standing on the porch, listening to the night. In this respect he is like me—his first line of defense is his hearing. I let him hear my footsteps as I scurry away from the house and into the nearby cornfield. He dashes around the side of the house, but already I’m invisible in the tall stalks. There’s no moon—the night is black as ink. I have to admire his patience, his courage. He knows he has a visitor, and in his line of work he knows that can only mean bad news. But he doesn’t turn on any lights, nor does he run back inside and call the police. He doesn’t want to alarm his family, and he’s confident he can deal with the situation.
    I wait and listen as his heartbeat slowly accelerates fromninety beats a minute to a hundred and twenty. Fortunately, I can see as well in the dark as in the daytime, and I’m able to follow his every move. He probably has infrared goggles in his private arsenal, but he did not bring any with him. I understand. How would he explain them to his wife if she stopped him leaving the house? Still, with each passing minute I note the frustration on his face, the tension, the smell of sweat on his skin.
    My goal is to lead him deeper into the field, farther away from the house. I don’t want to involve his family any more than he does. After five minutes of sitting, I shake a branch and dash another hundred yards deeper into the corn. He does not hesitate but follows quickly, making almost no noise. He’s an experienced fighter, on all terrains. He has wisely removed his shoes. Any leather shoe or boot, no matter how broken in, makes a faint squeaking sound. I, too, am barefoot.
    We play the same game for the next ten minutes, with me pausing to let him catch up, and then dashing away again. I never let him get close enough to hit me with a lucky shot. But I know the game is stressful for him. His heart jumps to a hundred and seventy beats a minute. He has begun to pant, and sweat drips from his forehead. His well-lit house, only a half mile away, must look a lot farther in his eyes.
    I crouch low and let him come within twenty yards of my position.
    “Had enough, Marko?” I say casually.
    He freezes, then scans the area in my direction, his gun held ready.
    “My name’s Joe Henderson,” he replies. “What are you doing on my property?”
    “Randy Clifford. New York.”
    He sighs faintly. He knows now that he’s the contract. It must be a novel feeling for him, to be on the other side of the equation. His heart is a hammer in his chest. He’s scared.
    “What do you want?” he asks.
    “Information. In exchange for your life and the lives of your wife and children.”
    “You’re a professional. You won’t kill them.”
    “Not if I leave here with what I want to know. By the way, I have you in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle. The scope is infrared. If you reach for a match or cigarette, I’ll shoot.” Although I have no need of a scope at this distance, he’s expecting me to give him these instructions. The flare of a match in an infrared scope would blind the person who’s using it.
    “You sound close,” he replies.
    “I am.”
    “Maybe too close for safety.”
    “Be my guest, go ahead and take a shot. Just as long as you know I’ll take a shot of my own and you’ll be missing your right knee.”
    He considers this for a moment, then lowers his gun.
    “You have the advantage,” he admits.
    “Drop your gun. Now, on the ground.”
    He drops his gun.
    “Kick it away from you.”
    He does as he is told.
    “Randy Clifford,” I say. “Who hired you?”
    “The contract came to me over the Internet. I didn’t ask who was behind it. Like you, I never do.”
    “I’m not like you, and your answer is unsatisfactory.”
    He speaks quickly. “My broker can be contacted at