Crossfire (10 page)

Damn. Quinn blew out a breath. Took a long pull from the brown beer bottle as he considered that perhaps the shooter had taken inspiration from his novel.

‘‘Okay. This isn’t good.’’

‘‘Murder never is.’’ She turned to a clean page in the notebook. ‘‘So. Tell me about snipers.’’

It was not his favorite subject. He especially wasn’t wild about discussing battlefield death with a woman he still wanted, after all these years, to get horizontal with.

Putting aside the fantasy of making love to her on that hammock he’d been using for a bed, he took another drink.

Then got down to business.

Tyler Long couldn’t sleep. It was the night before his first day in a new school and his mind was spinning with possibilities.

Would he like his teacher? He’d really liked Miss Cunningham, the teacher at his old school last year, who’d smelled like flowers and always greeted her second-grade class with a smile.

Would the other kids laugh at him when he stuttered?

Well, duh.

Tyler hated stuttering, which he’d only begun doing last year when his mom and dad split up and he and his mom had to move into this apartment from their house on Swann Island, with the swimming pool and the cool tree fort his dad had built for him.

The first time he couldn’t get the words out, he’d felt as if an alien had come down from outer space and stuffed his throat with rocks. He still felt that way, but things were getting a little bit better since the speech doctor his mom had taken him to had taught him to take a deep breath, then stretch his words out. Which helped him spit those rocks right out of his throat.

‘‘It-t-t’s going to be okay.’’

So long as he used the speech utensils he’d been practicing every day. That was what he needed to remember. Instead of getting so nervous the nasty old alien would be able to sneak up on him and shove more of those rocks into his mouth.

He hugged his stuffed Dalmatian, Spots, to his chest and buried his face in its soft black and white fur. The stuffed dog looked just like the real dog he’d had to give away when they’d moved to the mainland. Their landlord didn’t allow pets. His mom had said that it wouldn’t have been fair to keep Spots locked up in an apartment all day, but as soon as she saved up some money, they’d get a place with a backyard. Then they could go to the shelter together and pick out a new dog.

Meanwhile, he had a goldfish in a bowl on his dresser. Which was okay, but you couldn’t take a fish to bed with you. And a fish mostly just swam around in circles or hid behind the plastic bush. It didn’t really want to listen to your problems, like Spots always did. Then lick your face when you cried.

His mother was a cocktail waitress at the Wingate Palace hotel. Because she had to work past midnight, she slept in a lot. Afraid that she’d sleep through the alarm and cause him to be late on this super-important first day, Tyler crept out of bed and went over to where his new uniform was hanging on the closet door.

Some of the other kids in the building had teased him because he was going to St. Brendan’s School and wouldn’t be able to wear cool Spider-Man T-shirts and regular clothes like they did at public school. But Tyler liked the idea of having a uniform to wear. It made him feel like he was going to fit in. Because if everyone was dressed the same, it’d be like he was one of the gang, right?

A normal kid. Not a stutter-mouth.

He put on the white shirt and navy blue pants. Then his socks and the black dress shoes, which he had to admit were dorky. But all the boys had to wear them, so it wasn’t like he was going to stick out or anything.

Returning to the bed, Tyler lay on his back, arms stiff at his sides, being careful not to wrinkle his new clothes. He reminded himself what his speech doctor had taught him about James Earl Jones, whose stuttering hadn’t stopped him from growing up to be Darth Vader’s voice in all those Star Wars movies.

And there was always Kenyon Martin, a pro basketball player, who was also on that ‘‘people who stutter’’ poster hanging on his wall next to all his drawings of concept cars. He’d planned on becoming a car designer when he grew up, but after hearing about Darth Vader, he’d been thinking maybe it’d be cool to be an actor and get to dress up and pretend to be someone else.

Someone who didn’t stutter.

‘‘So, are we gonna blow their fucking minds tomorrow, or what?’’

‘‘We’ll definitely get their attention,’’ the shooter said for the umpteenth time.

He was beginning to consider just putting a bullet into the guy’s mouth to shut him up.

‘‘Maybe you might want to slow down on that,’’ he said as he looked up from cleaning his rifle.

A rifle was a sniper’s most treasured possession. Any sniper worth his salt—and he was—became so intimate with his rifle that he could take it apart and put it together blindfolded. Which the shooter wasn’t doing tonight. But he could, if need be.

‘‘You need to be sharp tomorrow. Which you’re not going to be, if you’re nursing the mother of all hangovers.’’

‘‘You sayin’ I can’t handle my liquor?’’

That was exactly what he was saying. Christ, what had he been thinking, hooking up with a damn alkie?

Corporal Charles Jensen had been one of the boots on the ground in Iraq when he’d gotten shot in the head by friendly fire during Shock and Awe. The bullet that had crashed through his skull—moments after he’d lost his helmet to a mortar attack—had rewired his brain.

And not in a good way.

Jensen was about as dependable as the weather during hurricane season. Problem was, there weren’t a lot of guys around who were willing to take on what could, if he screwed up, end up being a suicide mission.

‘‘I’m just saying we both need to be sharp,’’ he repeated. His tone was mild, but he had to struggle to fight off the temper he felt beginning to boil.

He reached up and took hold of the bullet he wore on a chain around his neck and reminded himself that losing his temper wouldn’t achieve his objective.

‘‘Sharp as fucking tacks,’’ Jensen promised as he poured another shot of his best friend, Jim Beam.

The shooter decided he was going to have to change tactics. Because his spotter had goatfuck written all over him. The problem was that the plan, as he’d originally conceived it, beginning at St. Brendan’s and ending up at the far opposite end of the city, involved moving fast. Which meant he needed someone to drive the car.

So, he’d work on logistics. After tomorrow’s mission.

Which was, he thought with a burst of anticipation, going to blow their fucking minds.

‘‘Okay,’’ Quinn said. ‘‘The thing is, high-tech military machinery is way cool and it can assist the troops, but what people don’t understand is that even in these days of modern warfare, it can never replace them.

‘‘Sooner or later, although it might not be pretty to think so, the ultimate weapon is the guy on the ground with a gun. Like Theodore Roosevelt said, the only bullet that counts is the one that hits. Which is why snipers are a cost-effective force multiplier—they’re cheap to train, cheap to equip, and cheap to deploy.’’

‘‘They’re also human beings,’’ Cait pointed out. ‘‘With, hopefully, human emotions.’’

‘‘Sure. And the trick is being able to keep in touch with those emotions, while doing your job.’’

Quinn paused, trying to figure out how to describe something he’d never talked about with anyone except his teammates.

‘‘Look,’’ he said, ‘‘snipers aren’t anything new. Even cavemen realized that being able to kill at the farthest possible range gave them one helluva advantage over their enemy.

‘‘Over time, primitive man’s stones became replaced by spears, which in turn were replaced by arrows.’’

‘‘In your book you mentioned Attila the Hun conquering much of Europe and threatening the Roman Empire with horse-mounted archers.’’

Maybe it was foolish, but Quinn really, really liked the idea of Cait having read Kill Zone. ‘‘Those archers were capable of shooting their arrows beyond one hundred yards, which at the time was unheard of. And Leonardo da Vinci picked off enemy soldiers at the siege of Florence at three hundred yards with a rifle he’d designed himself.’’

‘‘Is that true?’’ He wasn’t surprised that she questioned everything. That was probably part of what made her a great cop.

‘‘Hey, I learned it in BUD/S training.’’ He flashed her his best grin, welcoming the light moment in what was a decidedly grim topic. ‘‘It must be.’’

A rich laugh bubbled out of her. It was the first time, outside of that night, he’d ever heard her laugh. Quinn decided he liked the sound. A lot.

‘‘A sniper shot Admiral Horatio Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar,’’ he said, reluctantly returning to the topic of killing. ‘‘And during the Second Battle of Freeman’s Farm, in 1777, Private Timothy Murphy climbed a tree and drilled a British general with a single shot, which forced the British to break off their offensive and retreat to Saratoga, where their surrender was the turning point of the war.’’

She raised her tawny eyebrows. ‘‘I grew up in a navy family. My father even teaches military history at ASMA, but I never heard those stories.’’

‘‘That’s because they’re not real popular. The idea of snipers violates the sense of fair play we’re all brought up to believe in,’’ he admitted. ‘‘Other soldiers kill so they won’t be killed, often up close and personal in hand-to-hand combat, which, as stupidly risky as it might be, is still regarded as a noble necessity.

‘‘But since a sniper coldly and calculatedly chooses a target from a long distance away, public attitude— hell, even the attitude from a lot of the military—is, ‘Okay, we need to use the sniper. But let’s not tell anyone about him. Then, after the war’s over, we can put him back into his bottle until we need him again.’ ’’

‘‘That’s harsh.’’

He shrugged. ‘‘War’s no cakewalk, Cait. And I can’t speak for every sniper in the military, but it’s a helluva lot different when you can view another human being as a target through your scope, without any personal attachment, rather than taking a life in the heat of battle.’’

‘‘No personal attachment at all?’’

It would’ve been easier to lie. But Quinn decided she needed to know the truth. Not just to possibly get a handle on her serial shooter, but because if he was going to win her over—and he fully intended to—she also deserved to know the truth about him.

‘‘Kill them all and let God sort them out might make for a snappy bumper sticker, but professional snipers can’t work that way. A sniper has to be certain that a target is a legitimate threat, which means you may spend a long time watching him.

‘‘Okay, which, yeah, does make it personal. Maybe you watch him eating dinner, taking a piss, smoking a cigarette. Maybe even kicking a soccer ball with his kid. And all the time he has no idea that you’re holding his life in your hands.’’

‘‘I never discharged my weapon in the line of duty,’’ she volunteered.

‘‘You were lucky.’’

‘‘I know. But to tell the truth, that, along with making sure victims received justice, was one of the big appeals of homicide. Homicide cops tend to come in after the bullets stop flying, which makes it a lot safer occupation than, say, vice or narcotics. But I always knew if someone was shooting at me, or my partner, or an innocent civilian, I wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.’’

‘‘And, being the kind of person you are, you’d never forget having killed another human being.’’

‘‘No.’’ She was looking at him more closely now. Looking hard. Looking deep. Quinn wished he didn’t give a damn about what she might be seeing.

‘‘I can still remember each of my targets,’’ he was surprised to hear himself admitting. ‘‘I can still see their expressions in that last instant of their lives.’’

He could see her thinking about that. ‘‘That has to change a person,’’ she said carefully.

‘‘Sure.’’ He knew he’d been forever altered by the job he’d done so well and for so long. And the eyes he could still see through his scope.

‘‘Was there a very strong part of me that might’ve hated what I did when I pulled the trigger? Absolutely. But I also understood I was involved in something a helluva lot larger than myself.

‘‘ ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is an admirable commandment to live by. But in battle, even more important is ‘Thou shalt not kill my teammates.’ The men I killed were trying to kill American soldiers. Which meant my job was to keep the enemy from doing theirs.’’

‘‘I can understand that.’’

She took a long drink of water, and once again the silence spun out. Somewhere out in the marsh a bull-frog was calling to its mate and an owl hooted.

‘‘Still,’’ she murmured, ‘‘it’s not something that just anyone—even every soldier—could do. At least not on a regular basis.’’

‘‘A sniper can’t have any compunction against killing. But he has to have compassion. A conscience.’’

Watching her carefully, he could practically see the lightbulb go on in her head. ‘‘Unlike someone who can shoot innocent civilians from a distance.’’

‘‘Absofuckinglutely unlike that,’’ he replied. Giving in to temptation, just a little, he took the two steps from the railing to the glider and sat down beside her, encouraged when she didn’t move away. ‘‘You don’t necessarily have to be a religious person, not in the sense of attending church, and you don’t even need to believe in a higher power.’’

He gave the glider a little push. Forward. Back. Forward again.

‘‘But you have to be able to justify what you do when you pull that trigger. Some take shots to save lives—’’

‘‘Which would be you.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Her lips were just inches from his. It’d be so easy just to duck his head and . . .

‘‘Which would be me.’’ He wondered if there was a male anywhere on the planet who’d want to talk about deadly missions in the past while sitting so close to such a sexy, sweet-smelling woman.

‘‘Others shoot because they hate the enemy. Some, because for them, it’s their job. But the important thing to know is that a sniper never, ever kills for the sake of killing. The military doesn’t want any nutcase who gets his rocks off by wanton killing.’’

‘‘You mentioned a rigid selection process.’’

‘‘Yeah. It’s tough. Selection boards look for good markmanship, natch. And good physical condition. Hearing, vision, have to be excellent. You have to be intelligent. But if those were the only criteria, most of the guys—and women—in the military could be snipers.

‘‘They’re also looking for intangibles. Initiative, common sense, an even temperament, above-average observational skills, the ability to get along with team members, and a mature personality that allows you to cope with the stress of calculated, deliberate killing.

‘‘Along with all that, you need patience. You’ve got to be willing and able to endure lying in the jungle, or the sand, hour after hour, hell, day after day, with bugs crawling all over you, biting the hell out of you, the sun baking your skin, the rain pouring on your head, remaining absolutely focused, no matter what.

‘‘Because the one thing for sure is that the bad guy’s coming. And when he does, you’re going to kill him.’’

Cait shivered at that. Oh, she covered it up quickly enough, but like he said, a sniper needed good observational skills. And his had always been excellent.

He was also getting damn sick of the subject. ‘‘You smell like a piña colada.’’

‘‘It’s my shampoo.’’

‘‘I like it.’’ Taking a risk, he skimmed a hand over the bright curls that were soft as silk and misted from the fog rising from the marsh surrounding the house. ‘‘It reminds me of that song.’’

‘‘What song?’’

‘‘The one about piña coladas. Getting caught in the rain.’’ Which was currently tapping on the copper roof that extended over the porch. ‘‘The feel of the ocean.’’ His caressing touch moved down her sleeve. Over the back of her hand. ‘‘And champagne, and—’’

‘‘I know it,’’ she said, cutting him off before he got to the best part, about making love at midnight. ‘‘So, is that all?’’

He wasn’t surprised when she stood up. Disappointed, but not surprised.

‘‘Pretty much.’’ He stood up as well. ‘‘At least about snipers, but like I keep telling you—’’

‘‘I know.’’ She exhaled a frustrated sigh that ruffled her bangs. ‘‘You don’t believe he’s a sniper.’’

‘‘No. I don’t. But you’d better hope I’m wrong.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because that weapon I told you he’s using?’’

She nodded. ‘‘The M16 or AR-15. Or Bushmaster XM15.’’

‘‘That’s it.’’ He wasn’t surprised she remembered. She’d always been, to his mind, the perfect combination of beauty and brains. ‘‘It may just be the best assault rifle ever invented, though admittedly some advocates of the M4 carbine might disagree. It’s got a thirty-round magazine, a muzzle velocity of 948 meters per second, and an effective range of 800 meters.’’

Quinn figured that despite her familiarity with handguns, those numbers might not mean all that much to her. But, God help them all, there was more.

‘‘With a rate of fire, depending on the guy pulling the trigger, of 700 to 950 rounds a minute.’’

She stared at him. Although he couldn’t tell for certain, with those rain clouds having covered up the rising moon, he thought her already fair skin paled.

‘‘Oh, shit,’’ she said.

‘‘I’d say that about covers it,’’ he said.