Smoke & Mirrors
Authors: John Ramsey Miller
Tags: #Revenge, #Thrillers, #Mississippi, #Suspense, #Suspense Fiction, #United States marshals, #Snipers, #Murder - Investigation, #Espionage, #Fiction
CONTENTS
For my sons, Christian, Rush Lane, and Adam, each a
unique and spectacular human being
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Tunica County, Mississippi, Sheriff K. C. Hamp for giving of his time and allowing me a close look at his department. Thanks to David Crews of Oxford, Mississippi, for his continuing assistance. Thanks to my super agent, Anne Hawkins; my editor, Molly Boyle; and my publisher, Nita Taublib, for their hard work and constant support. And finally, thanks to my family, my friends, and my readers.
I have been interested in handguns since I was a teenager. I never write about a weapon (other than military ordnance and explosives) unless I am personally familiar with it, and seldom about one I haven’t either owned or field-tested. When I began writing Winter Massey, he carried a SIGSauer 226, which I still believe is the finest and most accurate mass-produced handgun in the world, and which was, at that time, the service weapon of the U.S. marshals, and a gun most other federal agents carried. When Winter Massey retired, he was able to carry whatever weapon he chose. The Reeder custom handgun Winter carries in this book is a gun I had the pleasure of playing with for several weeks. Of all the custom handguns I have ever fired, the .45s made by Kase Reeder of Flagstaff, Arizona, are the finest I’ve had the pleasure of handling. The artisans at Reeder have been kind enough to let me play with several of their 1911 creations so I could put them through their paces to see which one Winter Massey, whose life depends on a single piece of equipment, would select as his carry piece. He decided on the “Rekon Kommander.”
Finally, as I am a native with both friends and family residing there, I spend a lot of time in Mississippi, but I am not a gambler. I had never been to the casinos outside Tunica until I decided I wanted to bring Winter Massey home for an adventure. I am of the opinion that gambling is an industry that takes away far more from people than it gives in return. While the impoverished Tunica County I knew as a young man has become prosperous, it has come at a cost. All casinos prey on human frailty, and the by-product of gaming in terms of human tragedy is real and immeasurable. The men and women who run the casinos, legitimate businesspeople or men like my fictional Pierce Mulvane, are exploitative: no amount of civility, bright lights, glitz, and glamour changes that.
1
THE MISSISSIPPI DELTA SOUTH OF MEMPHIS
THURSDAY
RIFLE CASE IN HAND, A SOLITARY FIGURE MOVED
among the trees and scrub brush made leafless by the season. The still, predawn air made fog as the man exhaled. The cold stimulated him. It brought back memories of the glacial eastern European mountains where he had spent his youth learning the art of murder.
Dressed entirely in camouflage, the man slowly and silently made his way through the woods on the damp leaves. Not that there was any danger here in this remote place. No enemy awaited him—only a target of his choosing, who was at that moment taking in and expelling a few last breaths. But being careful was reflexive. Caution made the difference between life and death.
The killer moved to the hide he had selected at the edge of the forest line—a sweet gum tree that had been felled by autumn winds. Kneeling behind the tree, he set his rigid case on the ground, unbuckled its latch, and lifted out the Dakota T-76 Longbow rifle topped with a powerful scope.
Although he much preferred operating at close range, he could nevertheless place a .338 Lapua Magnum round through a cantaloupe at twelve hundred yards. At three thousand feet per second, the bullet would punch a .34-caliber entrance hole in the target’s skull, whereupon the hydrostatic pressure would literally hollow out the cranium, filling the air downrange with a vapor comprised of brain tissue, bone chips, and blood. Surviving such a cranial event was about as impossible as threading a needle in the confines of a dark closet while wearing boxing gloves.
The shooter gently leaned his rifle against the fallen tree’s trunk. Reaching into the case, he pulled out a sand-filled canvas bag. Using the back edge of his right hand, he chopped a channel into the center of the bag before setting the gun’s stock into the groove. A squirrel climbing the trunk of a nearby tree became aware of the man and chirped, its tail flicking nervously.
Taking up the gun, he opened the bolt and pressed it forward, watching as the brass case of the topmost shell slid from the magazine and vanished into the firing chamber. The mechanism sounded like a vault door closing in the quiet woods. Bringing the butt firmly against his shoulder, he lowered his cheek to the cold synthetic stock and looked downrange through the scope.
Ready now, the man behind the tree had only to wait for the morning light to gather so he could get a line of sight across the expansive field. Even after ninety career kills—not including collateral damage—the assassin felt the old mix of anticipation and adrenaline growing within him. He held out his hand and smiled to see that his fingers were as rock-steady as those of a surgeon.
Of all the people the man had neutralized, only three of them had been dispatched for personal reasons. Until two years earlier he had only killed because he was ordered to by the state, or, after the wall fell, had been paid handsomely to kill. He had come here to make one more personal kill, to clip one final loose string hanging from the fabric of his life.
The man had never failed to carry out an assignment because, unlike other professional killers, he always had an insurmountable advantage. It wasn’t merely that he was more intelligent than his targets or their protectors, or that his lethal-arts skills were vastly superior—although those things were true enough. The killer’s real edge was his vision of each assignment as a chess match—a game of strategy and deception, wherein he laid and sprang elaborate traps, always ending with a vanquished king. Because the stakes in his games were absolute, he always controlled the board, only making moves to spark his opponent’s reaction. There was never any question as to the outcome.
Taking a toothpick from the open rifle case, he clenched it between his teeth, chewing on the tip until the faint taste of clove filled his mouth. Daylight was imminent, and as the hunter peered through the scope with his finger outside the trigger guard, a calm enveloped him. He knew—as surely as the sun was rising at his back—that this shot would kick-start the most challenging game of his career.
