The Empty Chair (Lincoln Rhyme 3)

"You got a shot? Take it," Mason Germain was whispering.

A hundred yards away from where that bitchy redhead from New York was confronting the killer, Mason and Nathan Groomer were on the crest of a bald hill.

Mason was standing. Nathan was prone on the hot ground. He'd sandbagged the Ruger on a low rise of helpful rocks and was concentrating on controlling his breathing, the way hunters of elks and geese and human beings are supposed to do before they shoot.

"Go on," Mason urged. "There's no wind. You got a clear view. Take the shot!"

"Mason, the boy's not doing anything."

They saw Lucy Kerr and Jesse Corn walk into the clearing, joining the redhead, their guns also pointed at the boy. Nathan continued, "Everybody's got him covered and it's only a knife he's got. A little pissant knife. It looks like he's going to give up."

"He's not going to give up," spat out Mason Germain, who shifted his slight weight from one foot to the other in impatience. "I told you--he's faking. He's gonna kill one of 'em as soon as their guard's down. It don't mean anything to you that Ed Schaeffer's dead?" Steve Farr had called with this sad news a half-hour ago.

"Come on, Mason. I'm as tore up about that as anybody. That doesn't have a thing to do with the rules of engagement. Besides, look, will you? Lucy and Jesse're six feet away from him."

"You worried about hitting them? Fuck, you could hit a dime at this range, Nathan. Nobody shoots better'n you. Take it. Take your shot."

"I--"

Mason was watching the curious little play going on in the clearing. The redhead lowered her gun and took a step forward. Garrett was still holding the knife. Head swiveling back and forth.

The woman took another step toward him.

Oh, that's helpful, bitch.

"She in your line of fire?"

"No. But, I mean," Nathan said, "we're not even supposed to be here."

"That's not the issue," Mason muttered. "We are here. I authorized backup to protect the search party and I'm ordering you to take a shot. Your safety off?"

"Yeah, it's off."

"Then shoot."

Peering through the 'scope.

Mason watched the gun barrel of the Ruger freeze, as Nathan grew into his weapon. Mason had seen this before--when he hunted with friends who were far better sportsmen than he was. It was an eerie thing that he didn't quite understand. Your weapon becomes part of you just before the gun fires, almost by itself.

Mason waited for the booming report of the long gun.

Not a breath of wind. A clean target. A clear backdrop.

Shoot, shoot, shoot! was Mason's silent message.

But instead of the crack of a rifle shot he heard a sigh. Nathan lowered his head. "I can't."

"Gimme the fucking gun."

"No, Mason. Come on."

But the expression in the senior deputy's eyes silenced the marksman and he handed over the rifle and rolled aside.

"How many in the clip?" Mason snapped.

"I--"

"How many rounds in the clip?" Mason said as he dropped to his belly and took up a position identical to his colleague's a moment before.