A Quiet Undertaking
How did I get myself into this?
I wiped a clump of damp bangs from my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand. Hunkered down beside a jagged volcanic rock, I cocked my gun, then low-crawled among the manzanita and Sierra thistle toward the safety of a cluster of trees.
I squatted, waiting; my eyes scanned the underbrush. Nothing moved except a river of perspiration down my chest.
Fear has a way of pushing the senses into overdrive. Suddenly I could see every blade of field grass quake. Feel the relentless pressure of the warm breeze against my overheated body. Smell my floral lotion fighting pungent sweat. Even my saliva tasted different--sticky, salty, sour.
In spite of the density of the blue oaks and needle pines, and the camouflage of the rugged terrain, it was difficult to stay out of the line of fire. And I had lost track of the man who was stalking me with a loaded gun in his hand.
Before I could find new cover, I saw something fly past my head, narrowly missing my ear. Ducking flat, I felt my black T-shirt stick to my sweaty skin like a giant Band-Aid.
Damn! How had he spotted me? I'd been careful not to make any noise as I cr ...
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