You . . .
The electric sizzle again. Even at this distance.
Stephen easily moved the reticles onto his chest.
Go ahead, Soldier, fire your weapon. He's a logical target; he can identify you.
Sir, I am adjusting for tracking and windage.
Stephen upped the poundage on his trigger.
Jodie . . .
He betrayed you, Soldier. Take . . . him . . . out.
Sir, yes, sir. He is ice cold. He is dead meat. Sir, vultures are already hovering.
Soldier, the USMC sniper's manual dictates that you increase poundage on the trigger of your Model 40 imperceptibly so that you are not aware of the exact moment your weapon will discharge. Is that correct, Soldier?
Sir, yes, sir.
Then why the fuck aren't you doing it?
He squeezed harder.
Slowly, slowly . . .
But the gun wasn't firing. He lifted the sights to Jodie's head. And as it happened, Jodie's eyes, which had been scanning the rooftops, saw him.
He'd waited too long.
Shoot, Soldier. Shoot!
A whisper of a pause . . .
Then he jerked the trigger like a boy on the .22 rifle range at summer camp.
Just as Jodie leapt out of the way, pushing the cops with him aside.
How the fuck d'you miss that shot, Soldier? Repeat fire!
Sir, yes, sir!
He got off two more rounds but Jodie and everyone else was under cover or crawling fast along the sidewalk and street.
And then the return fire began. First a dozen guns, then a dozen more. Mostly pistols but some H&Ks too, spewing the bullets so fast they sounded like unmuffled car engines.
Bullets were striking the elevator tower behind him, showering him with bits of brick and concrete and lead and sharp, craggy copper jackets from the slugs, cutting his forearms and the backs of his hands.
Stephen fell backward, covering his face with his hands. He felt the cuts and saw tiny drops of his blood fall on the tar paper roof.
Why did I wait? Why? I could have shot him and been gone.
Why?
The sound of a helicopter speeding toward the building. More sirens.
Evacuate, Soldier! Evacuate!