He hid deep in the Aspen trees’ orange and brilliant golden foliage fifteen yards off the ski trail—waiting. His skis pointed across the downhill slope through a small breach between the large stand of Quaking Aspen. He would be ready when the time came to make his downhill run from his concealment. There was no breeze, and the pungent, yeasty Aspen scent surrounded him where he bent low over his skis. He’d been waiting for twenty minutes; fresh, crisp snow crunched under his skis as he shifted his body in the wait. He knew his victim would come soon. His target made this his last run every day.
The Assassin glanced over his left shoulder and saw skiers glide off the chairlift to begin their run down Walsh’s Trail. They made a sharp left turn at the watchers’ stand where the trail led down the mountain’s steepness. He flexed his stiffening knees and felt them pop. Snow-stacked sprigs above his head dripped onto his neck, running cold down his spine. It made him shiver. Considering what he was there to do, the Assassin thought, Shivers, how appropriate is that. And he continued his wait.
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