Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) by David Healey (great books for teens TXT) 📕

Mountains themselves rose to the south of the Ardennes region and straddled the border between Germany and France, in the region known as Alsace-Lorraine. Hans explained that the area had passed back and forth between Germany and France many times over the centuries. They crossed the Rhine into France, drove through the small city of Strasbourg, then continued into the Vosges.

Cole felt some small sense of relief at leaving Germany and entering France, although he knew that was foolishness in this day and age. But deep down, he had always liked the French and found them to be a welcoming people. After all, it was the French who had helped Americans win the Revolutionary War. Americans had returned the favor in 1944. Spending a few days in France was just fine by him.

Slowly, the road gained altitude as they climbed into the mountains. Cole felt right at home because these peaks felt more like the Appalachians, with rounded hilltops rising to elevations of around twelve hundred feet. The road grew narrower, following the valleys, with dense forests creeping closer. The afternoon grew darker. In the back seat, the conversation between Danny and Angela grew softer, then fell quiet. The grim mountains and woods seemed to demand silence.

“Where is this place?” Angela asked her uncle, sounding a bit nervous.

“It’s just—”

At that moment, a stag came bounding out of the woods, directly into the path of the car. Hans stomped on the brakes. It wasn’t the best reaction because the car began to skid on the damp fallen leaves littering the road. He fought for control of the wheel as the car slewed sideways.

From the backseat, Angela gasped. Danny swore.

Hans had braked, but it hadn’t been enough to keep them from hitting the stag, which more or less ran right into the car. The big animal hit them with a solid thud, then bounced off the grill into a roadside ditch.

By some miracle, the car stopped skidding just before following the stag into the ditch.

“Well, I ain’t had a ride like that since my rocking chair fell through the front porch last summer,” Cole remarked. “Everybody all right?”

“All right,” said Hans, whose hands still gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

Angela and Danny were fine. Like a good German, she had made them both follow the rules and buckle their seatbelts, even in the backseat.

“What about the poor stag?” she asked.

“You wait here. Let me go see about that,” Cole said.

Cole got out, along with Danny. After a minute, Hans followed, although Angela had to help him—he was still shaky after hitting the stag. Cole had the worrisome thought that Hans had complained of heart trouble before.

The stag lay in the ditch, tangled in the ferns and bracken, still alive, but barely. When it saw Cole, the stag struggled pitifully to rise, but then gave up and lay there, its ribs heaving with labored breathing. Cole studied the animal with interest because he had never seen one up close. He recalled that a stag was more closely related to an elk than to a whitetail deer.

“Maybe there is an animal hospital nearby,” Angela said, close to tears. “We can get help.”

Cole and Hans exchanged a look. Cole was a hunter and Hans was a farmer. They both knew what needed to be done.

“I will get the rifle,” Hans said.

Hans walked back to the trunk and got out the rifle, then returned and fed a single round into the chamber. Hans aimed down at the injured stag, then lowered the rifle. “I cannot do it,” Hans said.

He held the rifle out to Cole, who took it, immediately enjoying the feel of the rifle in his hands. Damn, but he would never be too old for that.

“Danny, why don’t you walk Angela down the road a ways,” Cole said.

Danny did just that, putting an arm around her shoulders, which were shaking a little, and led her away.

Cole gave them a minute, then raised the rifle to his shoulder to put the animal out of its misery. His jaw fit tight against the rifle, with the stock fitting comfortably into his shoulder. He took a moment, just getting the feel of the rifle. Through the expensive scope, the stag’s eye showed bright and clear.

He squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the single rifle shot echoed across the hills.

He ejected the shell and reached down to pocket the soft, warm brass.

“The lodge can’t be far,” Cole said. “When we get there, we’ll let them know in case someone wants to come back here and get the meat.”

“Good idea,” Hans said meekly. He still looked pale after the accident. Cole thought about that weak heart again.

“You doin’ OK?”

“OK.”

“Why don’t I drive the rest of the way,” Cole said. “You can navigate. I thought trying to read German was bad enough, but these damn road signs are in French.”

The car’s hood wasn’t even dented, with only some fur caught in the slats of the grill, and nothing mechanical had been affected. The car started right up. The Volvo seemed to be built like a tank. Cole backed it away from the edge of the ditch, got it pointed in the right direction, and headed for the lodge somewhere in the hills ahead.

Some might have seen the collision with the stag as a bad omen, but Cole wasn’t so sure about that. He’d had the opportunity to fire the rifle and kill with it. He and the rifle were no longer strangers. They had made a bond by blood.

Tonight, he would dismantle the rifle and clean it carefully. He would get to know it that much better, inside and out.

Tomorrow, it would be time to hunt.

Chapter Twenty

Cole drove them the rest of the way to the lodge, which turned out to be built of stone and timber, making it both stately and comfortable. Woodsmoke trailed from the chimneys, mixing with the scent of fallen leaves and fresh pine needles. Yellow lights glowed in the windows.

“Nice place,” said Cole. “Where