She adjusted her position slightly. The rifle's bipod was stable on the sedan's hood, the metal cold under her gloved hands. The scope's reticle settled on the man's chest. Center mass. The kill zone. She could see the rise and fall of his breathing. Could see the way he hunched slightly against the cold.
She tightened the slack out of the trigger. Felt the resistance. Knew exactly where the break point was. Two pounds of pressure. Maybe less.
One breath out. Slow and controlled. Her heartbeat slowed further. Fifty-eight beats per minute.
Steady.
The world narrowed to the scope. To the reticle. To the target.
She fired.
The suppressed round snapped across the lot with a sound like a branch breaking. The rifle's recoil was minimal—absorbed by her shoulder, by the bipod, by the weight of the weapon itself. She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just watched through the scope as the bullet covered 142 yards in less than a second.
The man stopped instantly. No struggle. No sound. She shifted ever so slightly and executed the head shot.
Her target hit the pavement and didn't move. Dead before he hit the ground.
She lowered the rifle and broke it down fast. Bolt first—pulled back, removed, placed in the soft case. Barrel next—unscrewed, wiped clean, nested in foam. Optic—detached carefully, lens caps replaced, secured. Magazine—removed, cleared, pocketed. Suppressor—still warm, wrapped in cloth, packed away. The whole process took ninety seconds.
Soft case zipped. Rifle invisible.
She stood, stretched slightly, and scanned the parking lot one more time. No movement. No reaction. The body lay where it had fallen. No one had heard. No one had seen.
One down.
The second target would be found. She had time, patience, and a rifle that could reach out and touch someone from half a mile away.
Even Joe Reacher.
PART FIVE
21
The office consisted of a single desk, metal, positioned to face the door.
One chair behind it, two in front, equally utilitarian. There were no photos or commendations and the walls were bare except for a clock—analog, its secondhand ticking with mechanical precision—and a map of the United States marked with colored pins whose meaning was known only to the man who placed them there.
The window was small, institutional, the kind that opened only four inches for ventilation and never enough for escape. Through it, past the reflection of the single desk lamp, the Potomac was invisible in the darkness. Only the lights of Arlington were visible across the water, distant and cold, like stars that had fallen and gotten stuck in the Virginia clay.
The man who frequently positioned himself at the back of the task force, despite everyone involved knowing he was in charge, wore a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
His jacket hung on the back of his chair. The lamp—a simple brass banker's lamp with a green glass shade—cast a pool of light across the file he was reading, leaving the rest of the office in shadow.
The file was marked CLASSIFIED in red block letters. Inside were surveillance photographs, transcripts of intercepted communications. He read slowly, methodically, occasionally making a note in the margin with a mechanical pencil. His handwriting was small and precise.
The building around him was mostly empty. Somewhere down the hall, a janitor's cart rattled.
The man turned a page. Read. Made another note.
There was a knock at the door.
Not tentative.
He didn't look up immediately. Finished the sentence he was reading. Turned the page face-down on the desk. Set the pencil beside it, parallel to the edge of the file. Only then did he raise his eyes to the door.
"Yes."
The door opened six inches. A young man's face appeared—early thirties, wearing a headset pushed back on his head, the kind the communications staff wore. His eyes were wide, adrenaline bright.
