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He wanted their eyes to meet when he took his life. He wanted to look at the President who had betrayed him, whose death could bring about everything Clegg dreamed. Shooting him in the back as he mistakenly walked past wasn’t good enough. So he stepped out. He drew attention to himself. He let Roosevelt know it was him. You could only take a man’s life once, and he was going to enjoy taking this one. There was but one small tinge of regret staining the moment: Terrence lying on the ground nearby, still drawing breath. Clegg longed to see the blood escaping his body, to see his eyes going dim as the man’s life ended. He would have liked time to watch Meyers die, it felt the decent thing to do given their history, but he couldn’t afford to give Roosevelt time to escape, or Murdoch time to catch him.
The trouble was Murdoch. Clegg couldn’t separate him from Roosevelt, so he had reveal himself to both of them. Clegg looked back and forth at the two, weighing the cost of taking the shot here and now. He couldn’t reload fast enough to shoot both of them. This close, whoever he left couldn’t fail to shoot him in turn. He considered the very real possibility that he wouldn’t get out of here alive, and let it pass over him. It was the price of hesitating. What was a bullet, or even a life for his country? The question was, which of them would he take? The detective who had gotten in his way more than once, and had come out here to do the same again? Clegg would have already executed the president the night before, and with far greater ease, if Murdoch hadn’t gotten involved. Getting rid of him now would make up for the inconveniences the man had caused him over the years. He held the pleasure of it tight in his chest, and then let it go. Killing Murdoch was unimportant. He was a loose end. Clegg could just as easily let him live, under different circumstances. He wanted Roosevelt.
He clenched his jaw against a groan, and lowered his weapon. No. If he died here, Murdoch would still be alive, and report what had really happened. The assassination of the President by a former American agent wouldn't bring about a war with Canada. If he tried running, they would shoot him. If he turned himself in, he might be able to escape again before they executed him. He’d almost reconciled himself with defeat when Roosevelt got distracted. Either he thought Clegg was no longer a threat, or he thought a moose important enough to risk his own life. Clegg wasn’t in a position to care. It wasn’t how he wanted, but you couldn’t be too proud to say no to second chances. Instead of getting to see Roosevelt dying from a crossbow bolt, his vision was swallowed up by the worst pain he’d ever felt. Shock rushed away into fury as he realized what he’d allowed to happen. He hadn’t been shot by Roosevelt or Murdoch, but by the one person he’d discounted. He hadn’t waited for Meyers to die.