Tiger by William Richter Page A

the gunfire was scattered and undisciplined, none of the shots passing closer than four or five feet away from them. The shooter was a panicked amateur.
    â€œThe target in your failed bank job was an unauthorized copy of some account ledgers,” said Divine. “Our organization is mentioned in those documents, putting us at risk. Inside this cabin is the accountant who assembled the ledgers and kept the extra copy for himself. If he isn’t available to testify about the work he did, his deception will be harmless.”
    And now Tiger understood. It was an opportunity to make things right.
    There was another barrage of automatic gunfire from the cottage—erratic, again—and then the sound of rapid footsteps. Tiger looked in time to see a lone man sprinting away from the back of the cottage, across the clearing and into the surrounding trees.
    â€œGo,” said Divine.
    Tiger took off running, crossing the clearing in a matter of seconds and plowing into the trees. He ducked and dodged his way through the woods, but branches and vines still tore and pulled at him, lacerating his face and neck and his lower legs, which were bare below his cutoff fatigues. It was no matter—Tiger could handle the minor punishment, and he was sure that the woods would take an even greater toll on his desperate prey.
    As he raced on, Tiger considered the ways in which this encounter might play out, knowing it was possible that Divine’s intention was to leave both the accountant and Tiger dead in the woods to rot. If the situation evolved that way, he would be ready.
    There were a few more gunfire bursts in Tiger’s general direction, but none of them came close to finding their mark. When the gunfire went quiet, Tiger stopped in his tracks and remained absolutely still, listening. The woods were silent now. He waited. A single birdcall sounded from far away. A mosquito buzzed around Tiger’s left ear. There came a sound of whistling wings from fifty yards away as two or three birds flit away from their perch, followed by the sound of something snapping under the weight of a footstep—a fallen branch, maybe—and then the sound of footsteps again, running somewhere through the trees ahead.
    The woods were too dense for Tiger to see the man. He held his ground and closed his eyes, taking a single deep breath and releasing it halfway. He raised his gun up in his right hand and stabilized it on the open palm of his left, bending his knees slightly into a shooter’s posture. With his eyes still shut, Tiger concentrated and listened, slowly turning his body to the right as he followed the sound of running footsteps with the muzzle of his HK.
    Tiger fired three quick shots into the trees. A cry of pain came from up ahead, and the sound of a body crashing down onto the forest floor. Tiger began walking, soon hearing a whimpering cry just ahead, and a dragging sound. A hundred yards along Tiger found the man, clawing his way over the forest floor in agony. His face and arms were slashed and scraped from the sharp forest brush, and his left thigh was bleeding from a bullet wound.
    â€œ Oh God  . . . ” the man pled through gritted teeth. “Tell me . . . just tell me what you want. . . . ”
    â€œStop moving,” Tiger said, and the man became still. His weeping continued, quieter now.
    He was small and wiry, wearing a pair of pleated office pants and a short-sleeved dress shirt. He hadn’t shaved in a while, and his eyes looked hollow and dark, as if he hadn’t slept in days. A mark on either side of his nose revealed that the man wore glasses, but they were nowhere to be seen. He squinted in Tiger’s direction, trying but failing to make out the face of his tormentor.
    â€œWho are you?” the man begged.
    Soon the sound of footsteps came up behind them and Divine appeared beside Tiger, looking down at the man on the ground with no more