Is this his latest addition?
What does he have against charities?
CHAPTER 66
Phillips
AIDEN PHILLIPS IS STRETCHED out on an apartment building’s roof a block and a half away from the bombed-out office. No ghillie suit today, just a military-grade camo tarpaulin that blends in with the smooth asphalt surface. He looks like part of the roof.
Through his spotting scope, he takes in the scene—smoke, flashing lights, first responders moving with discipline and purpose.
The bomb did a fair job tearing off a chunk of a corner office of the bland-looking building, but Phillips has seen only two body bags so far.
He shifts under the tarp, picks up his M42 sniper rifle, and slides forward.
He rests on his elbows and peers through the scope.
He gets the blasted building in view, then brings the crosshairs down, down, down until he locks on two people standing in the middle of the water-soaked street.
John Sampson and Anna Rizzo.
One about six foot nine. The other five feet and change.
It would be difficult, but not impossible, to drop them both with one round.
If that was what he wanted to do.
He tightens his grip and flicks on his laser sight.
Time for a little motivational exercise.
CHAPTER 67
Sampson
I TAP ANNA RIZZO on the arm. “Let’s go inside and see what we can find.”
“We should wait for the bomb squad,” she says.
“I thought youwerethe bomb squad.”
“I guess we could sneak a peek before the rest of the team gets here.”
As soon as she says it, a red laser dot appears on her forehead.
“Down!” I drop my go bag and tackle her to the sidewalk.
“What the hell?” she shouts. I cover her with my body and drag her behind a dented BMW.
“Sniper! Stay low! He had you zeroed in!” I lift my head and shout as loud as I can:“Everybody down! We’ve got a shooter!”
There’s a lot of noise, so I don’t know if any of the cops or firefighters heard me.
I pull out my service weapon, raise myself up slightly, and peeraround the front bumper. Rizzo grabs my shoulder and yanks me back. “He’s gotyouzeroed now!”
We both flatten ourselves on the soaking-wet pavement. When I turn my head, I can see the dot dancing on the side panel of the car, inches from my skull.
“My radio!” I turn my head in the other direction. There it is. Lying on the sidewalk about six feet away.
