But Donny was silent.
And down below Solaratov waited, scoping the rocks, waiting for just a bit of a sliver of a body part to show so he could nail it, and then get on with business.
He is so good.
He made great shots.
He hit Dade Fellows dead on, he hit Julie riding at an oblique angle flat out at over eight hundred meters, he was just the-That scene replayed in his mind.
What was odd about it, he now saw, was how featureless it had been. A ridge on a mountain, with a wall of rock behind it, very little vegetation. It had been almost plain, almost abstract.
So?
So how did he range it?
There were no guidelines, no visual data, no known objects visible to make a range estimate, only the woman on the horse getting smaller as she got farther away on the oblique.
How did he know where to hold, when her range changed so radically after the first shot?
He must be a genius. He must just have the gift, the ability to somehow, by the freakish mechanics of the brain, to just know. Donny had that. Maybe it's not so rare.
But then he knew. Or rather Donny told him, reaching across the years.
'You idiot,' Donny whispered hoarsely in his ear, 'don't you see it yet? Why he's so good? It's so obvious.'
Bob knew then why the man had shot at him as he fell but missed. The range had changed, he estimated the lead and got it slightly wrong and just missed. But once his target was still, he knew exactly the range. And that's how he could hit Julie. He knew exactly. He solved the distance equation, and knew how far she was and where to hold to take her down.
He has a range finder, Bob thought. The son of a bitch has a range finder.
Solaratov looked at his watch. It was just past 0700. The light was now gray approaching white, a kind of sealed-off pewter kind of weather. The snow was falling harder and a little breeze had kicked up, tossing and twisting the flakes, pummeling as they rotated down. The wind got under the crack of his hood, where his flesh was sweaty, and cut him like a scythe. A little chill ran up his spine.
How long can I wait? he wondered.
Nobody was flying in for yet another few hours, but maybe they could get in with snowmobiles or plow the highway and get in that way.
A sudden, uncharacteristic uneasiness settled over him.
He made a list:
1.) Kill the sniper.
2.) Kill the woman.
3.) Kill the witnesses.
4.) Escape into the mountains.
5.) Contact the helo.
6.) Rendezvous.
An hour's worth of work, he thought, possibly two.
He kept on the scope, the rifle cocked, his finger riding the curve of the trigger, his mind clear, his concentration intense.
How long can I stay at this level?
When do I have to blink, look away, yawn, piss, think of warmth, food, a woman?
He pivoted on the fulcrum of the log, running the scope along the ridge of rocks, looking for target indicators.
More breath? A shadow out of place? Some disturbed snow? A regular line? A trace of movement? It would happen, it had to, for Swagger wouldn't be content to wait. His nature would compel action and then compel doom.
He can't see me.
He doesn't know where I am.
It's just a matter of time.
He tried to figure out a range finder. How do the goddamn things work? His old Barr & Stroud was mechanical, like a surveyor's piece of equipment, with gears and lenses. That's why it was so heavy. It was a combination binocular and adding machine: completely impractical.
But no modern shooter would have such a device: too old, too heavy, too delicate.
Laser. It has to work off a laser. It has to shoot a laser to an object, measure the time and make a sure, swift calculation off of that.
Lasers were everywhere. They used them to guide bombs, aim guns, operate on the eye, remove tattoos, imitate fireworks. But what kind of laser was this one?
