“I know a CIA sniper who used to go through there,” Lucas said.
“What’s his name?” Sherwood asked, curious.
“It’s a her, though she won’t admit to being with the CIA. She works with an Unspecified Agency. Barbara Cartwright.”
“Wow. I know Barb, a bit.” Sherwood laughed, shook his head. “She’s a piece of work. She’s got a legend going. How did you hook up with her?”
“Met her out in Taos, New Mexico, during that virus hassle,” Lucas said.
“You’re not the guy…There was a marshal who had a daughter…”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Lucas said. “Me and my daughter Letty.”
“Didn’t know that, and I should have,” Sherwood said. “Wasn’t in my backgrounder package. You guys did a nice job out there.”
“Lucas certainly thinks so,” White said. “His head was the size of a fuckin’ watermelon, until he had to start doing regular marshal stuff again.”
“Barb about burned down the Albuquerque airport, as I hear it,” Sherwood said. “We were all pretty proud of her, the amount of damage she did.”
“Two million bucks’ worth of cars and trucks, up in smoke,” Lucas said. “Didn’t do the parking garage any good, either. I understand they’ve been working on the third floor ever since.”
• • •
“Tracks,” White said,pointing into a shallow roadside ditch. To Sherwood, she said, “That’s not really a heavy-duty coat you got there. That’s a fashion coat. Aren’t you cold?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t allow it.” He didn’t smile.
White had no response to that, and kept her mouth shut.
• • •
The tracks ledback into the woods between the Sokolov house and the next one up the circle. They followed through the trees and around the brush, and Lucas pointed out White’s and his own tracks where they crossed the sniper’s and the spotter’s.
They were close to one of the other houses, and a man shouted at them, “Hey! What are you guys doing?”
White shouted back, “U.S. Marshals. Go back inside.”
“Did you shoot someone?”
“No.”
“We heard a gunshot. A bunch of gunshots.”
“All done now. Go back inside. Don’t come out here, a crime scene crew is on its way. If you mess up a crime scene, you go to jail.”
The man retreated, muttering.
• • •
The shooters hadbeen following a game trail in the thin snow, frozen leaves crisp underfoot like potato chips, and walking to one side of the trail, the three of them found the sniper’s nest quickly enough.
The gunman had set up behind a fallen tree and had used a hand-sized black sandbag on the trunk to steady the rifle. The sandbag was still in place. Three holes in the snow, and elbow and knee prints, marked the spot where the spotting scope had been mounted on a tripod.
“He’s a good shot,” Sherwood said, looking down toward the hideout. “Threaded that slug over and under quite a bit of brush.”
