‘We’ll be praying for you. Carl, you need to get to the hospital. Can Andy drive you, or shall I call someone?’
‘I’m not leaving here till this is over,’ Carl said. ‘I want to watch him.’
The match referee’s voice announced over a loudspeaker that the fullbore rifle competition was about to start.
‘We’d best hurry,’ Miss Vale said.
Ben tossed away his cigarette, picked up the rifle case and his bag and headed towards the ranks of competitors. Carl followed, his eyes red with pain, clutching his hand. Miss Vale went to talk to the match referee, and within half a minute had persuaded him to let the substitute shooter come in.
There were thirty competitors on the firing line. Ben stepped over the rope cordon and took his place on the line. He dumped his bag on one side of his shooting mat and the rifle case on the other. Opened up the case and lifted out the Winchester. It was too late for sighting-in shots, or to warm up the rifle’s bore. A hundred yards away, range officers were taking down the practice targets and putting up fresh ones.
As he slipped on Carl’s electronic ear defenders and settled himself into the prone position that his sniper training had instilled in him so long ago, Ben hoped he hadn’t taken on more than he could deal with. His heart was beating fast. It had been a long time since he’d taken shots like this. Too long.
He glanced over at the shooter in the next lane. The man had his name stencilled, military-style, on the green metal ammunition box at his side. B.L. Johnson. The ex-Marine sniper Carl had mentioned. For a second they made eye contact. Johnson had the look about him that Carl didn’t have – the look of a man who hadn’t only shot at paper targets. He smiled, not friendly, not aggressive. Just a little knowing smile. Then he went back to his rifle.
Ben felt his heart begin to race as he peered through the scope at the targets. Only a hundred yards away, but the target face was no bigger than a dinner plate. It was divided up into a series of concentric rings, and at its centre was a black circle the size of a saucer. The very middle of the black was a ring that shooters called the ‘x- ring’. It was the size of a large coin. The x-ring was worth ten points, the next ring outwards worth nine, the next worth eight, and so on.
The tournament rules were brutally simple. The shooters would engage targets at one hundred, five hundred and a thousand yards. Ten shots per target, and anything below a ninety score was a disqualifier. It was a tough course of fire. Ben held his breath as he clicked in the magazine and worked the smooth bolt of the Winchester.
The crowd was silent.
Glancing back over his shoulder he saw Carl, Miss Vale and her assistants huddled behind the cordon twenty yards behind the firing line, watching. At the old lady’s elbow was Cleaver, staring coldly at him.
The referee gave the command to commence firing.
Ben thumbed off the safety catch. He did a quick ballistic calculation and let the crosshairs hover on a point a few inches low of the centre of the target to allow for the three-hundred-yard zero.
To his left, Billy Lee Johnson’s rifle boomed, dust flying up off the ground near the muzzle.
Ben controlled his breathing. The sight crosshairs wavered against the target. Up, down, sideways. Sweat ran down his brow and prickled his eyes. He blinked it away.
In his mind, he saw Charlie again. He thought of the bombing victims on Corfu, the maimed and the dead. Thought of Nikos Karapiperis, and Zoe Bradbury, and the torment that her family was going through. Rhonda and the child who would never know its father. All because of the man standing behind him. He could feel Cleaver’s presence there, almost touching him.
Different people reacted differently to anger. For some, it was a form of stress that affected their concentration, dulled their thinking and slowed their reactions. He’d seen it happen many times.
But for him, it was different. He’d always been able to control his rage, to channel it, making the energy work for him instead of against him. It made him focus. He could feel every tiny detail of the texture of the rifle stock in his hands. He peered through the scope. Now the sight picture held rock steady. The target was sharp and clear. In his mind, he was aiming right at Cleaver’s head.
He hardly felt the smooth trigger face against the first joint of his finger. The trigger broke and the rifle kicked back hard against his shoulder. He lost the sight picture for a moment, and when he brought the rifle back to aim he saw the little black hole he’d made in the target. The first shot had cut the edge of the x-ring.
And an hour later, he knew it for sure.
After the first round, seven of the thirty shooters were eliminated from the competition. There was a twenty- minute break so that the range officers could take down the targets and set up the new ones, four hundred yards further downrange. They were slightly larger than the first ones, but through the sights they were minute.
Round two began. Ben had imagined that the five-hundred-yard course of fire would have a devastating effect, and it did. When it was over, only nine shooters were left. He was one of them. So was Billy Lee Johnson, the ex- Marine sniper. Now, when he looked at Ben, the smile was gone.
But Ben wasn’t interested in Johnson. He was enjoying the fact that Clayton Cleaver was still there, watching. He was giving him a message, as surely as if he was telling him to his face. He wanted Cleaver to fear him, and he knew it was working.
Then the five-hundred-yard targets were taken down, and the survivors settled in for the real test. At a thousand yards, things look very, very small, even through the magnifying lens of a powerful scope. But it wasn’t simply a question of holding the gun steady and pulling the trigger. At such extreme range, there were many other factors involved. The wind could send a bullet’s trajectory way off course. It had to be anticipated. So did the parabolic arc of the bullet as it gave way to the forces of the Earth – and from such a range Ben expected it to drop several feet. He had to compensate by aiming high, and that was where the true art of the sniper came into play.
The referee gave the call to fire. Ben worked the bolt, peered through the scope. He could barely see the target. It was such a tiny thing, almost outside the realm of his physical senses but so, so tangible in his mind’s eye that it was the centre of everything.
He fired. Bolt back, case ejected, bolt forward, next round chambered.
Fired. The rifle bucked like a live thing in his arms. He worked the bolt again. He was lost in a world of his own, deep in the zone. Nothing existed except him, the target and the forces trying to prevent him from hitting it. Even the rifle didn’t exist – it was just an extension of his mind and body.
In that moment, not even Cleaver existed. He let go. Kept firing until his ten shots were spent. Only then did he look to see how he’d done.
He exhaled deeply. There was only one hole in the target. It was a ragged vent where all ten shots had gone in. A perfect score. His heart jumped. He’d won.
Except he hadn’t. The range officers came bouncing back uprange in their golf buggies and the results were announced to the crowd, amid a lot of cheering. Two shooters had come through the final round. Him and Billy Lee Johnson, neck and neck. It was a tie.
The Marine sniper ambled up to congratulate Ben. ‘Pretty hot shooting, friend. Where’d you learn?’
‘The Boys’ Brigade,’ Ben said.
‘Tie-breaker, guys,’ the ref said. ‘How do you want to settle it?’
Johnson grinned. ‘Your choice,’ he said to Ben.
‘Whatever I want?’
Johnson nodded. ‘You call it.’
‘Let’s bring it back a little,’ Ben said. ‘One hundred yards. One shot, best man wins.’
‘One hundred? Are you kidding?’
Ben didn’t reply.
‘Whatever you say,’ Johnson said. He rolled his eyes at the ref, who shrugged his shoulders.
They walked out and set up the targets at a hundred yards. ‘Hold on,’ Ben said. He kneeled down in the grass to tie his shoelace. Johnson and the ref turned and headed back towards the firing line. Ben got to his feet and jogged after them to catch up. As he approached the cordon, he could see the eager faces of the spectators all watching him closely. Miss Vale was still there, and there was Cleaver still at her elbow and still staring coldly at
