Lying in the bed of a Ford pickup going 70 miles per hour on FM-1960, I pause to review my plan. My boots are up against the tailgate, with my head by the bulkhead. Kev is driving, and Mitch is my spotter. I lie face up, and can see the stars over East Texas. Clutched to my chest is a Remington VTR .308, my father's rifle. We know Eric Redman is heading to Austin at ludicrous speed, and we pursue at oh-dark-thirty. Mitch thumps on the rear window once. Time to get ready, and I answer with two clicks. The safety is off, and the reticle in the Leupold scope is illuminated. Kev speeds up to pass, then slows just a touch. Mitch hits the window twice. Time to go. I sit up, and twenty yards down-range, Eric's eyes widen. The rifle comes up. My right eyes focuses past the reticle, which is aligned over his sternum, visible over the wheel of his car. He killed my father over money, and is trying to escape. I will have none of this. A short sharp pull, and the rifle punches me in the shoulder. Riding the recoil, I fall back into the bed. Kev stomps on the gas, and we roar away into the night, leaving a car veered into a ditch. I hold onto my rifle. This was done for my father.

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