It was a perfect night to bury a body.
The man in the slicker walked stooped over, his breathing labored and his body was soaked in sweat. The weight he carried, though not substantial, was awkwardly draped over one mammoth shoulder. The rain had shriveled to a heavy mist and the sky was beginning to lighten. It had rained all afternoon. At times soft, then drizzly—and at one time it was vicious, as it bombarded the trees and leaf-covered ground.
It was never easy carrying a lifeless body through the woods in the middle of the night, especially when the terrain was so uneven, but Bart was in superb shape at six-foot four and weighing a hefty two hundred and fifty pounds. A cocky confidence guided each of his steps and the Austrian nine-millimeter Glock he carried was certain security.
Twisting his ankle en-route was unexpected of course, but . . . . . . . . .