He peeked through his spotting scope, a Swarovski 60×. In the circle of that magnification, he saw what he had to see. The image at 60× was one hundred and thirty feet wide, more than enough to make out the scene. A post had been driven deep into the earth. It had a medieval look to it, something the great Saladin would have erected as a site for execution by fire of cowards and traitors. Moored to the post, though hanging limply unconscious from it, was a man.

He stirred, shook, then twitched hard, as if gripped in the talons of a nightmare. Juba had no interest in what those nightmares might be. What he saw was only a target, something to be hit solidly with one 1,847-yard shot. He knew that the Mexicans sat a few feet to the left, their Land Rover not far from the scene of the action, which promised to amuse them greatly. They had brought a cooler of Diet Cokes and Tecates, and some lawn furniture.

The phone on the bench buzzed. Juba picked it up.

“My friend,” said Jorge, in Arabic, “we think he will awaken soon. You won’t have to wait long, although these drugs are tricky.”

“It’s fine,” said Juba. “I have no rush. Besides, I have some calculations yet to make.”

“Excellent. We have bets going on how many shots it will take you to hit him. I bet two.”

“Probably too few,” said Juba. “The program never works perfectly the first time. We must learn its refinements.”

“Ah, well, it’s only for a bottle of tequila.”

Juba put the phone down, pulled on surgical rubber gloves, and picked up the iPhone 8. Always with the gloves so that not only would his fingerprints be protected, so would any oily excretions, any flakes of dead skin, any strands of hair that might adhere, all of which would reveal that the DNA was not that of Brian Waters. Of course, on the great day itself, the thing would be carefully scrubbed with acetone and seeded with some souvenirs of the late Mr. Waters—saliva, mucus, oil from his fingers, hair—which were the key part of the deception.

He held it, pressed the HOME button. It blinked awake and asked him for the code behind which lay all its treasures. Expensively, this had been found. He keyed it in and immediately emails came up, not many of late, but a few, saying such things as “Can’t wait to hear your stories, buddy” and “SE Asia! Now, that’s for the man who’s done everything!” and “Have fun, pal, but I wouldn’t go anywhere that didn’t have Magic Fingers in the motel rooms.”

Juba only went to the icon page and knew exactly where to look. His finger hit the one that said FirstShot, the icon a tiny bull’s-eye.