Summers took Ponti’s arm, and they turned to go inside, just a few steps away now.

“Ready,” Mitch said.

“Send it.”

The M110 gave off a familiar sharp pop as the bullet passed through the suppressor at three thousand feet per second. In virtually the same moment, Cornelia Summers collapsed to the ground with a small red blossom just above her left ear.

Justice Ponti stumbled as she came off his arm, and the second shot missed. A glass door about ten feet from the man’s head shattered into a million pieces.

“Again,” Denny said. “Now.”

The Supreme Court justice had turned back toward the car. He already had one hand on the door.

“Do it, Mitchie.”

“I got him,” Mitch said, and there was another sharp pop.

This time Ponti went down for real, and the entire block in front of the Harman was thrown into full-blown pandemonium.

Chapter 97

DENNY WATCHED THE STREET while Mitch broke down. A steady rain had started to fall, but that didn’t stop hundreds of people in very nice evening wear from scattering like cockroaches up and down the block.

“What’s going on, Denny?” Mitch had already packed the scope, stock, and magazine away.

Denny motioned Mitch over. “Come here. You should see this. It’s amazing what you’ve done.”

Mitch seemed torn, but when Denny waved him over again, he set down his gear and duckwalked back to the ledge. Then he peered at his work.

The Harman looked like some kind of glass-fronted insane asylum. Police flashers were already rolling in the street, and the only people not moving down there were the two bodies laid out on the sidewalk.

“You know what that’s called?” Denny said. “That’s mission accomplished. Couldn’t have gone better.”

Mitch shook his head. “I messed up, Denny. That second shot —”

“Don’t mean nothing now. You just soak this shit up for a minute and enjoy it. I’ll get us ready to go.”

Denny stepped back and started securing the clasps on Mitch’s pack while Mitch watched, transfixed.

“Not bad for a night’s work, right, Mitchie?”

“Yeah,” Mitch said, only half out loud, more to himself than anything. “Kind of awesome, actually.”

“And who’s the hero of the story, bro?”

“We are, Denny.”

“That’s right. Real live American heroes. Nobody can ever take that away from you, no matter what. Understand?”

Mitch didn’t even answer this time, except to nod. It was as if, once he’d gotten a glimpse, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene.

A second later, Mitch was dead — with a bullet in his head.

The poor guy probably didn’t even hear Denny’s muzzled Walther go off, it happened that fast. Just as well. It was a goddamn awful business sometimes; the least Denny could do for him was make it quick and professional.

“Sorry, Mitchie. Couldn’t be helped,” he said.