He hefted it, experiencing the ten pounds as just enough to be responsive yet at the same time just enough to be steady, slipped behind the tripod, and bedded the rifle forestock on a small sandbag that lay between it and the steel platform at the tip of the shaft. He fit himself to it, his eye coming to the scope and finding the right distance between scope and eye, and settled in.

The rifle was, of manufacturing necessity, generic in its dimensions and design. It was not adjusted to him, he adjusted to it. He knew exactly where to place his cheek to find dead center of the scope, he knew where exactly to place his hand on the comb to pull it stoutly to shoulder, he knew where he’d place his off hand—on top of his firing hand, just behind the thumb—for maximum control.

Meanwhile, behind him, the soldier slipped a radio to Juba’s belt, ran the wire to his head, and ensnared it in the earphone-mic crown. Juba heard crackling, some Spanish chatter, followed by the clear Arabic of Alberto:

“Guardian”—using the ludicrous code name that the Mexicans had insisted upon—“are you there?”

“I am,” he said into the microphone.

“Are you on target?”

“Yes, a few adjustments to make. What is the time situation?”

“Ah, they’re telling me it’s still six minutes until he’s due. We have spotters, and—”

“I know.”

“Yes, they will alert us when the vehicle is spotted, no matter from which direction.”

“Yes.”

“All right, now, they’re telling me he’s about two miles away, no traffic, ETA about four minutes.”

“I receive,” said Juba.

Now he was ready. He flicked the safety off, opened the bolt to reassure himself by a peek of brass that the cartridge still rested in the chamber—though, by no stretch of the imagination, could it have been removed—locked the bolt down, and began a series of microshifts and -adjustments toward perfect comfort.

“Last check through,” said Alberto from wherever it was the operation was being run, presumably a nearby apartment.

“Everything is perfect,” said Juba.

“Yes.”

“And the distraction detonation?”

“He is on the circuit. When you say go, he will blow up a garbage can down the block. Lots of smoke and noise.”

“Good.”

Another voice came on.

“All units now, radio silence for the shooter. May God be with us.”

•   •   •

The Marshals’ Dodge SUV led the way, behind which was the FBI party in a nondescript Bureau Ford, and, behind them, in honor of local participation, a Wichita city police squad car, holding two sergeants, seven doughnuts, and two cups of heavily sugared-up-and-creamed coffee.

“At least it ain’t a circus,” said Bob.

“Their plan is discretion, not a show of force,” said Nick. “Chandler, how are you doing back there? Okay?” She was alone in the backseat.