（猎人游戏）THETROPHY(English)bySteffenJacobsen.docx

Trophy(Trof?)a thrillerby Steffen JacobsenTranslated from the Danish by Charlotte Barslund“There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.”Ernest HemingwayProLogueFinnmark, northern Norway24 March 2011, 18:35 Zulu time70o 29’ 46.97” N25o 43’ 57.34” EWhen they found him, he was watching the sun go down behind the mountains west of Porsanger Fjord, knowing he would never see it again. The coldchased the twilight across the water. A few steps in front of him the plateau dropped steeply down to the sea. It was his only escape, but in the fading light and the state he was in,he couldn’t possibly climb down one hundred meter wall with an overhang. This was the end and he might as well face it. He refused to be theirquarry any longer.He knew that the hunters had driven him towards this point all day: to the edge of nothing. He limped across loose granitescree, tossed aside the empty hunting rifle and sat down behind a solitary boulder, polishedby the wind into a comfortable curve that supported his back. Nearby a brookchannelled meltwater away from the glaciers. It ran white, fast and smooth over the edge, hitting the shore of the fjord far below.He could see headlights from the occasional vehicle on the other side of the fjord less than fifteen kilometres away - and in another world. He tucked his hands under his armpits, rested his chin on his knees and inspected the ruined hiking boot pierced by the client’s bullet several hours’ago. His foot was still bleeding; he could see blood being forced through the bullet hole, but it no longer hurt very much. He pulled off the boot and gritted his teeth when his sock, stiff with congealed blood, followed suit. He wedged the boot under the boulder and covered it with gravel and pebbles. Perhaps one day someone would find it.They were good boots. Like all of his equipment they were first-class. As were the camouflage jacket and the