I, Sniper

He saw that Swagger was still upright but that he was in the standing shooting position, elbow out, head perfectly steady, knees locked like steel bolts, but before he could even process that information, he saw the bright spurt of muzzle flash-

Swagger watched him come, holding steady, feeling the wind lick a little at his face, then go away. He had adjusted his stance slightly and was standing bladed to the approaching man, still such a long way out, though enlarging steadily as he came. He tried to shake his mind free of the past and not put any thought into Carl, with his brains blown out in his underwear, going underground in the rain as witnessed by seven people, or De

He saw Anto pause, even if Anto himself didn’t feel the pause, and he knew that this was the moment, and he drew the rifle up to him and tight, but not cinched because a stander doesn’t cinch, since he’s linked to nothing solid but instead holds the beauty thing in a light command, as if it’s alive in his hands. The reticle was there before him exactly as his heart seemed to stop pumping and the universe itself froze between instants, and the crosshairs exactly trapped the man far off, who was now himself moving into a kneeling position, and without his telling it to, his trigger finger decided, the rifle somehow was fired by it, and Bob held the head still-it takes years to learn this-in follow-through and held the trigger squished flat back, and waited as the scope came down from its hop, neither hearing report nor feeling recoil.

– somewhere in his mind howisthispossible? seemed to emerge at light speed as the question of the day, and the next thing Anto’d been hit by a shovel and sent pinwheeling through the air.

He landed in a stu

How the fuck did he make that shot? he wondered as he died.

Swagger got out his cell and punched a key in his menu.

In a bit, Chuck McKenzie answered.

“Gu

“I seem to be. Don’t see no blood. Let me give you my coordinates.”

He looked at his GPS and read them off.

“We’re leaving right now.”

“Did you give that package-”

“Yep. It’s gone now. The jet took off an hour ago. How are you?”

“Tired. I’m too old for this shit.”

“That last Irishman?”

“What’s the Irish word for toast?”

“I think it’s toast,” said Chuck.

When that was done, Bob put in a call to Nick.

“The package is on the way.”

“I know. And we are all set up here. I’ve got a film restoration team to supervise the process, but they’re sure we can get good clear images off it without damage. I’ve got search warrant teams laid on in three states to hit Constable’s headquarters after we get warrants and subpoenas, and I’ve got a team in Chicago to take possession of the hard drive of Jack Strong’s office computer and the safe in Strong’s office. And I’ve got the Cook County state’s attorney people here; they can issue warrants and we can serve them. I’ve got a guy from the Nyackett, Massachusetts, prosecutor’s office to issue his warrant. If this is everything you say it is, we’ll be all legaled up sometime tomorrow and pick him up at a speech he’s going to give tomorrow night in Seattle.”

“Cool,” said Bob.

“You don’t sound excited.”

“I’m just tired as hell,” said Bob. “Are you sending people here to the ranch?”

“Yes.”

“Make sure to hit the security team headquarters. That’s where his sniper team was based. They all had laptops and were very professional. I’m sure there’s a lot of stuff there, and if you track back to wherever they lived privately, there’s even more.”

“Got it.”

“And you should send some people out into the wilderness area. I’ll give you the coordinates tomorrow. There’s some bodies to be bagged and pickled. Long story.”

“Jesus Christ. No wonder you’re tired. Get some sleep. Then get in here by-this is Saturday-by, say Tuesday?”

“Sure. Out.”

Bob rested a while but then gathered up his rifle and dragged his weariness to the ATV. He climbed on and gu

There lay his foe. The 150-grain Scirocco would be ba

Anto lay curled up on his right side, his left body half so damaged it made no anatomical sense. It didn’t even look real.

You stupid Irish bastard, Bob thought, remembering the long evenings at the Mustang Bar in Wyoming and what a happy time that had been. So much talent, so much guts, so much charm, and you end up in the high grass with your body blown in two, and for nothing but some rich asshole’s benefit, and he’s going down too.

By this time, the helicopter Chuck had hired was closing in. He raised a hand, not that it was necessary, as he stood out on the slope in a vastness of nothing. The chopper, a familiar old Huey, set down a hundred yards away, flattening the grass, lifting small stones and a haze of prairie dust, seeming inappropriate in a place otherwise so still. Its racket drowned all sound and made chatter impossible. Chuck ran over and gave Bob a nice thump on the shoulder, grabbed the gear, including the ghillie and his own Remington Sendero, while Bob carried Anto’s AI. They made it to the chopper, tumbled in, but not before Bob pulled his friend close and whispered, “Man, do I need to change my goddamned diapers.”