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Back Game of Snipers Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY STEPHEN HUNTER
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. PART 1
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. PART 2
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. PART 3
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. PART 4
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. PART 5
  70. 61
  71. 62
  72. Acknowledgments
  73. About the Author
  74. What’s next onyour reading list?

“I’m guessing he was paid a pretty penny for his work. So we bust him, work him over hard. We leverage him. He can tell us who paid him, what he did, what was on there, whatever. Again, I’d do it real low-profile, bust him on another charge, never move him out of Dallas, maybe just pick him up privately and take him to a parking garage, someplace anonymous, no drama, nothing to cause any ripples in the water. Maybe he leads us to whoever’s funding this thing, and we can track them to the source.”

“It’s two things,” said Bob. “It’s our best lead and it’s our only lead. Let’s go to Nick.”

34

The range

Much was known now. He’d finally settled on 91.5 grains of Hodgdon H1000, once-fired Hornady brass, Federal 215M big-rifle Magnum primers, overall length 3.73 inches, a Wheddle bullet die-sharpened Sierra 250-grain MatchKing hollow-point boattail bullet, as loaded by an L.E. Wilson bullet seater, with a .367 neck bushing. Fired, it delivered a muzzle velocity 2,755, plus or minus, and of course each individual round he made was tested in a Hornady concentricity gauge for circular perfection. The result was a brilliant chord of power and accuracy, the MatchKing bullets being the most accurate in his ambitious testing program. He also rolled them—the bullets themselves—before seating them, for consistency, on the Hornady gauge, making certain that they were perfect.

They produced a thousand pounds of energy at twenty-one hundred yards, enough to splatter any living target, human or animal, save perhaps the great thick-skinned and heavy-boned beasts of Africa. They could pulverize the thoracic cavity of a man at that range. It would be a wound there’d be no walking away from.

Now he sat at the bench, constructed by Menendez’s clever carpenters seven feet off the ground in a solid beech tree. Before him, though edged by pines that led to mountains—lofty, green, snow-covered or not—was more than a mile of heavy grass. It was yellowish, full enough to wave in the breeze. Three hundred yards out, water—too big to be a pond, too small to be a lake—gleamed in the sun. It spread for a couple of hundred yards, a kind of swampy stew under the tufts of grass, before yielding to more solid land. Finally, 1,847 yards away and sixty-seven feet lower, at the edge of the meadow, was his target. The range was perfect, the height difference too, exactly to his specifications and verified many times over by range finder.