The Panther: A book by KJ Donovan

Prologue

The man lowered his binoculars and wiped the thin spots of rain from the lenses with a dry cloth brought along specifically for the task. He always came prepared, priding himself on his ability to plan and execute tasks with what he deemed military precision.

The light drizzle was not a problem to him; his waterproof all-in-one undersuit and hiscamouflaged battle-fatigues kept him dry and warm. The thin dark mittens, with separate index finger kept his hands and trigger finger warm. His bush-hat kept the rain from his face. Even the heavy drops of rain falling from the leaves around him failed to break his concentration as he lay on the groundsheet for hours on end, his elbows resting on the soft groundsheet supporting the binoculars steady in hands.

He had returned to that same vantage point day after day for two weeks now and had committed the details of the landscape below him so completely to his memory that he was certain he could find his way to the unlocked rear door even on a night when heavy cloud blocked out the light of the moon.

Allowing a short smile to form on his face, his thin lips bared back to expose uneven, yellowing teeth. Raising the binoculars to his eyes, he scanned the valley floor below him for the hundredth time. The isolated farm buildings were the same as they had been from day one. He knew each door, each window, and each vantage point.

He knew the gates and doors that were used regularly; they were the ones that didn’t squeak, when opened; they were the ones he would use.

He knew the outbuilding where they kept the working dogs locked in at night; he would give them a wide berth, that building not to be breached.

The gravel path that followed the line of the houses would be avoided.

He had planned his route of ingress to the last detail; down from the shelter of the little copse where he now lay. Following the hedgerow that marked the boundary of the big field down towards the lower paddock, he would climb the sty and move along the well-worn path to the large wooden gate. The gate would take him to the side of the large stone barn. There, the shadow of its low eaves would keep him hidden from the main house, at least for most of the way.

Hugging the barn wallhe would be able to reach its far corner to where the most dangerous part of his journey began; the open space between barn and farmhouse. He knew the flagstones and his rubber-soled military boots would make his progress all but silent.

The man knew too that the rear farmhouse door was never locked. He had never seen the farmer, his wife or their voluptuous, raven-haired teenage daughter use a key to open the door. It was reasonable to assume that they kept it unlocked and it would remain unlocked. Not that locks were much of a barrier to him, given his training and practice.

You’ll pay the price for that lack of security my pretties.

Inside the house would be a different matter. He had no idea of its layout, but was confident that he would be able to find his way silently through the farmhouse. Stone and slate built Welsh farmhouses were built solidly; concrete floors on the ground floor with precious few squeaking floor boards to give away his presence. In any event, his precious Purdy, his beautiful, dangerous Purdy would ensure that he ruled the night.

This was it. The decision was made. Even the weather forecast was right; heavy cloud and light rain that night; ideal.

Tonight! Tonight he would begin his new life.

He smiled to himself again, a cruel, excited smile, and backed his way out of the copse taking his groundsheet with him, taking time to ensure that that he would leave no trace of his ever having been there.....