mirror on the case. My back to the wall, I angle the mirror so I can see out the front window.
Most of the gawkers and media have fled. Cops are behind cars, weapons drawn. Handguns and shotguns, nothing long enough to hit a shooter two hundred yards away. Some are shrugging on bulletproof vests – Type IIIA – which won’t offer any protection against high-velocity sniper rounds. A.338 will punch through them like they’re tissue paper.
Another shot.
I watch a patrolman’s head snap back – he’s behind the trunk of the patrol car, and the bullet slices right through the metal.
I turn back to the room. Five cops down in here, plus the original victim. Five more cops tucked into corners and behind furniture. Plus me. And Herb, if he made it.
I know it will take a minimum of ten minutes for the Special Response Team to gear up and arrive. They’ll have rifles, and heavier body armor.
But in the meantime, we’re ducks in a pond.
I try again.
“Herb!”
A second passes.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Then, “Jack!”
I blow out a pent-up breath, a million kinds of relieved.
“Are you okay?” I yell.
“Yeah! My wife called, hysterical. Saw us on TV. She said she’d hold you personally responsible if I’m killed.”
I wonder if I should call Latham. Perhaps I won’t have another chance.
I push back the maudlin thoughts, focusing on how to escape. I glance at the door, so far away. Then I lock eyes with a stag head, hanging on the wall.
Chris Wolak is a hunter. He’ll have long guns.
“Herb! Check to see if there are any rifles in there.”
“Hold on.” The pause lasts forever. Then, “Found a gun locker. Need to break it open.”
Another shot.
A crime scene techie, crouching behind the entertainment stand, wails like a siren, clutching the remainder of his foot. The pain must be unimaginable.
“Keep your head down!” I order the techie.
His keening cry goes on and on, and he rocks back and forth with his knee pressed to his chest, his head peeking out over the coffee table.
“Keep your-!”
Another shot.
The techie slumps to the ground, bleeding from the shoulder. A bad wound, gushing fast. He won’t live until the SRT arrives. He needs medical help now.
I’m not the type who prays, but I beg the universe for Herb to find a rifle.
6:46 P.M.
MUNCHEL
M UNCHEL PAUSES TO ADD another hash mark to the butt of his rifle, using a black permanent marker. That makes nine so far. The number pleases him, but he’s angry at himself for missing that fat cop, the one who came late to the party. Moves pretty fast for a porker. He arrived with that good-looking split-tail who parked in the middle of the street. That pisses Munchel off. Why should cops be able to park wherever the hell they want to? It’s bullshit.
Munchel checks his watch, figures he has a few more minutes before reinforcements arrive. Maybe he’ll have another chance at Fatty, and the double-parker.
His cell rings. Swanson again. Munchel picks up.
“What the fuck are you doing!” Swanson is yelling, his voice high pitched and girlish. Not a soldier’s tone at all.
“Hi, Greg. You at the rendezvous point, sucking down a cool one?”
“You asshole! You’re live on CNN!”
“Cool.”
Munchel pulls the bolt back, ejecting the empty cartridge, then jams it forward to force another round into the chamber of his TPG-1. He peers through the Leupold scope. All the cops in the street are hiding or have run off. Of course they have. An entire platoon is no match for a single skilled sniper. Munchel can shoot the petals off a daisy at three hundred yards. Killing cops at less than two hundred is child’s play.
“What if they catch you?” Swanson whines like a baby.
Munchel’s voice is pure Stallone. “If they take me, it won’t be alive.”
Munchel puts his face against the cheek pad. Aims. Fires. Another head shot. He rubs his shoulder – it’s getting sore, even with the built-in recoil damper – then he uses the
Most of the gawkers and media have fled. Cops are behind cars, weapons drawn. Handguns and shotguns, nothing long enough to hit a shooter two hundred yards away. Some are shrugging on bulletproof vests – Type IIIA – which won’t offer any protection against high-velocity sniper rounds. A.338 will punch through them like they’re tissue paper.
Another shot.
I watch a patrolman’s head snap back – he’s behind the trunk of the patrol car, and the bullet slices right through the metal.
I turn back to the room. Five cops down in here, plus the original victim. Five more cops tucked into corners and behind furniture. Plus me. And Herb, if he made it.
I know it will take a minimum of ten minutes for the Special Response Team to gear up and arrive. They’ll have rifles, and heavier body armor.
But in the meantime, we’re ducks in a pond.
I try again.
“Herb!”
A second passes.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Then, “Jack!”
I blow out a pent-up breath, a million kinds of relieved.
“Are you okay?” I yell.
“Yeah! My wife called, hysterical. Saw us on TV. She said she’d hold you personally responsible if I’m killed.”
I wonder if I should call Latham. Perhaps I won’t have another chance.
I push back the maudlin thoughts, focusing on how to escape. I glance at the door, so far away. Then I lock eyes with a stag head, hanging on the wall.
Chris Wolak is a hunter. He’ll have long guns.
“Herb! Check to see if there are any rifles in there.”
“Hold on.” The pause lasts forever. Then, “Found a gun locker. Need to break it open.”
Another shot.
A crime scene techie, crouching behind the entertainment stand, wails like a siren, clutching the remainder of his foot. The pain must be unimaginable.
“Keep your head down!” I order the techie.
His keening cry goes on and on, and he rocks back and forth with his knee pressed to his chest, his head peeking out over the coffee table.
“Keep your-!”
Another shot.
The techie slumps to the ground, bleeding from the shoulder. A bad wound, gushing fast. He won’t live until the SRT arrives. He needs medical help now.
I’m not the type who prays, but I beg the universe for Herb to find a rifle.
6:46 P.M.
MUNCHEL
M UNCHEL PAUSES TO ADD another hash mark to the butt of his rifle, using a black permanent marker. That makes nine so far. The number pleases him, but he’s angry at himself for missing that fat cop, the one who came late to the party. Moves pretty fast for a porker. He arrived with that good-looking split-tail who parked in the middle of the street. That pisses Munchel off. Why should cops be able to park wherever the hell they want to? It’s bullshit.
Munchel checks his watch, figures he has a few more minutes before reinforcements arrive. Maybe he’ll have another chance at Fatty, and the double-parker.
His cell rings. Swanson again. Munchel picks up.
“What the fuck are you doing!” Swanson is yelling, his voice high pitched and girlish. Not a soldier’s tone at all.
“Hi, Greg. You at the rendezvous point, sucking down a cool one?”
“You asshole! You’re live on CNN!”
“Cool.”
Munchel pulls the bolt back, ejecting the empty cartridge, then jams it forward to force another round into the chamber of his TPG-1. He peers through the Leupold scope. All the cops in the street are hiding or have run off. Of course they have. An entire platoon is no match for a single skilled sniper. Munchel can shoot the petals off a daisy at three hundred yards. Killing cops at less than two hundred is child’s play.
“What if they catch you?” Swanson whines like a baby.
Munchel’s voice is pure Stallone. “If they take me, it won’t be alive.”
Munchel puts his face against the cheek pad. Aims. Fires. Another head shot. He rubs his shoulder – it’s getting sore, even with the built-in recoil damper – then he uses the
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