The crowd of people shifted to the edge of the terrace for a better view, but in doing so they obscured Silva’s own view of Karen Hope. She was now only visible intermittently behind the heads and shoulders of the guests.
‘You seeing this, Itchy?’ Silva said.
‘Patience. Plenty of time.’
Silva blinked. She kept the rifle steady. No point in chasing Hope back and forth until there was a chance of a clean shot.
A cough came from behind her. Gavin. ‘Don’t worry, these people get bored easily. In a couple of minutes they’ll drift back inside looking for another drink. They’re more interested in networking and gossip than a few fireworks.’
‘Right. But what about Hope?’
‘The Hopes will stay out and watch to the end. It’s a tradition. You’ll see.’
Gavin was correct; after a minute or two several of the guests turned and slipped away. And then there was Karen Hope, her face lifted to the sky as she followed each wave of fireworks with an ‘ooh’ or an ‘aah’. Silva shifted slightly and allowed her finger to hover near the trigger. Brandon was slightly off to the left of centre, the crosshairs of the scope pointing at thin air, Karen Hope to the right. Silva waited. She would let Karen Hope walk into the line of fire. Hope moved a little to the left, the crosshairs now brushing her shoulder.
‘Oh fuck!’ Itchy moved beside her. ‘Hold your fire.’
‘What’s up?’ Gavin said.
‘Do you see him, Silva? The boy?’
‘What…?’ Silva pulled her head back for a moment. Itchy had his eyes to the spotting scope, his arm flailing in the air. She bent to the rifle again and saw him. A boy of two or three. Karen Hope had picked the young lad up so the kid could get a better view of the firework display. ‘I thought Karen didn’t have children?’
‘She doesn’t, it’s Bandon’s son, Karen’s nephew!’ Gavin shouted. ‘Just take the fucking shot. You’re running out of time.’
The way Hope held the boy meant a chest shot was now impossible. And the boy had pressed his cheek against his aunt’s face, staring with her out over the water at the fireworks. Silva shifted a fraction, moving the reticle up to target Hope’s head. Her finger slipped onto the trigger as the crosshairs jumped, the boy’s face now right in the centre. Her body tensed at the same time as a muscle in her right hand twitched.
‘Steady.’ Itchy’s voice came soft and low. ‘The bullet will take well over a second to get to the terrace. If Hope moves in that second, you’ll hit the boy.’
‘Damn it.’ Silva made a tiny adjustment and centred Hope’s face once more. She drew in a breath and held it. She just needed to concentrate.
‘The display will be over in the next couple of minutes.’ Gavin loomed behind her. ‘You have to take the shot now.’
‘Not a good time to talk, mate,’ Itchy said. ‘Keep schtum.’
Silva focused again. Blinked. Her finger curled towards the trigger but didn’t touch it. She could hear a pulse of blood in her ears, realised she needed to breathe, realised she was shaking.
‘The boy,’ she said, letting out a puff of air. ‘I can’t.’
She moved her right hand from the stock. She kept her eye to the scope, but the situation was now hopeless. Lashirah – Haddad’s wife – had moved up close to Hope and she reached out and stroked the boy’s cheek. The three of them occupied the centre of the scope.
‘Shit.’ Itchy shifted. Uncomfortable. Fidgeting. ‘It gets worse.’
Itchy was correct. Two men in suits emerged onto the terrace. Silva could see one wore a black earpiece, a slender wire curling down inside the man’s jacket.
‘Secret Service,’ Itchy said. ‘Bodyguards for the future president.’
‘We’re out of here,’ Silva said. She pushed herself back from the rifle. ‘This is way too risky now.’
‘Well if you won’t take the shot, I fucking will.’
A click came from behind her.
‘Easy, Gav, easy.’ Itchy’s voice was low and steady. ‘Let’s not do anything hasty, hey?’
Silva rolled on her side. Gavin stood with his right arm outstretched, his hand wrapped round a small automatic pistol, the gunmetal glinting with every flash of the pyrotechnics.
‘Move away from the rifle.’ Gavin waved the gun. ‘You and Itchy get out on the balcony and stand to one side. If you try to stop me I’ll shoot you.’
Itchy looked at Silva. Their only weapon was the rifle but there was no way that could be used in a confined space. Silva pushed herself to her feet, stepped through the curtains and walked out onto the balcony. Itchy followed.
‘Good.’ Gavin moved forward and lowered his bulk to the floor behind the rifle. ‘Now, then…’
‘You’re crazy, mate,’ Itchy said. ‘Silva’s got an Olympic medal, years of experience, is one of the best shots in the world, and yet this is an extremely tough one, even for her. You haven’t got a fucking chance.’
‘Itchy’s right,’ Silva said. ‘I’d say the odds of hitting Karen Hope with my first shot were no better than fifty-fifty.’
‘We’ll see, I’m not a bad shot myself.’ Gavin lowered his head to the optics. He was breathing heavily, his posture tensed, and he was simply the wrong build to lie comfortably behind the rifle. ‘And if I don’t hit first time, I’ll take another, right?’
Wrong, Silva thought. The L115A3 had a five-shot magazine and she’d placed a spare mag close by. However, the rifle had a bolt action. After each shot the chamber had to be manually reset. Doing that and maintaining any sort of accuracy over a distance of over a thousand metres was difficult,
