The Last Execution Read Online Free PDF

sniper?” Casey’s gaze slid around the table. “Anybody?”
    “Keeps me from having to fight my way out of the Sixth Precinct.” J.T. shrugged his shoulders. “Romeo confirmed our suspicion.”
    Leigh passed around pictures of the three bullets. J.T.’s hand folded around hers when he reached for his copy. She pulled away from the warmth of his fingers on her skin. “The shell casings are crushed beyond analysis.”
    Olivia pushed a diagram to the center of the table. “Based on the estimated trajectory and damage to the victim’s head, the sniper’s rifle has long range capacity.”
    “My guess is he’s using a Remington 700,” J.T. said.
    “It’s a workable theory. Go with it.” Casey leaned across the table to study the diagram.
    “It’s been the weapon of choice for years by hunters and SWAT, even some military. Our killer isn’t military. Many shooters tailor the barrel to take a .308 caliber bullet, or a .300 Winchester magnum, or hell, the larger .338. As I said, you can’t tell which by the shell casings. Judging by the damage to the skull, I’m betting on the .338.”
    “Damn, J.T. You constantly impress us with your knowledge of how to kill. Where’d you learn all this?” Romeo’s eyes were wide. While he tried to sound flippant, his hero worship showed.
    “Past experience. If I had you in the crosshairs, I’d use the Barrett .50 cal round.” J.T.’s lips curved upward. “It’s large enough to take off your ego-inflated head. The bullet and shell casing will reach from your thumb to fully extended index finger.” He leaned back, crossed one foot over a knee, and closed his mouth. His chest expanded wide and fell with each breath as if such a lengthy speech had winded him.
    “Why not military?” Leigh asked.
    “Because a trained sniper from any branch of the military aims for the heart. Never fails. One shot. One kill. Head shots are for showoffs and the movies. Too small a target. If you don’t drill them dead center, the bullet can ricochet off the skull and hit somebody else.”
    Leigh sat in awe. Not only did J.T. talk, he talked in full-blown sentences and with conviction. His knowledge of rifles, snipers, and the military impressed her. She’d wondered if his scar came from a tour of duty. Now she’d bet on it.
    “Casey, the idea the sniper uses a 700 put a frown on your face. Why?” Olivia asked.
    He blew out a sigh. “I know of a sniper who used that particular weapon, and he’s in the wind. Let me assure you, he’s a hell of a lot more than a pissed-off citizen. He’s a trained killer. Ex-SWAT sharpshooter turned vigilante. Someone who’s dedicated his life to extracting justice and who believes the judicial system has failed.”
    “Anna Slocum never filed a formal complaint,” Romeo protested. “How can the system fail if you never asked for help?”
    “The fact Mrs. Slocum never filed a report on the abuse makes me doubt it’s the same man. The sniper in New York joined an underground organization when his daughter was beaten to death by an ex-boyfriend. NYPD couldn’t put together enough proof to arrest the bastard, so he was never charged.”
    “We need more background on that sniper, in case he’s relocated to Atlanta.” J.T. pushed back from the conference table.
    “I’ll make a few calls. We’ll meet back here at four thirty.” Casey gathered his notes.
    Mrs. Slocum’s bruises and broken jaw nagged at Leigh. “Wait.” She stopped the group. “We should check out the other victims’ wives. Abuse may be the link we’re looking for.”
    J.T.’s gaze caught hers and held. A flicker of approval flashed in his eyes as he winked with a slight nod.
    “Let’s start with the first widow. Maybe all of them had trouble with stairs.”
    ****
    Friday, April 23, 10:00 a.m.
    “I’m sorry. Mrs. Ortega not home.”
    Leigh noticed the diminutive housekeeper shift from one foot to the other and the tightly gripped dust rag and can of furniture