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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?

The bird’s roar ceased, and there was a moment of stillness as the rotors sustained the machine of their own without the assistance of power but purely on the laws of aerodynamics, sucking the strength of the atmosphere through their canted blades. And in that pause Bob went hard to shooting position lock-in, rifle tight, eye centered on scope, finger on trigger, saw the open window and, though darkened, what could only be the silhouette of a man hunched over a rifle.

Without willing it, he fired, even as he read the flash from the other’s muzzle.

1504.066

He fired. The American sniper fired.

It was too late, of course.

He was where fate and destiny had decreed, in another’s crosshairs, even as that other was in his own. The flashes were simultaneous, even at that range, and the time in flight was as well.

It had to happen. It did. Now, here, today, this minute, this second, this fraction of a second.

He entered the light.

1504.079

“Bingo!” screamed Nick. “Brains on the ceiling, baby, you nailed his ass. Oh god, what a shot, what a shot, Swagger is the best. Did he shoot? I thought I saw flash. Did he—”

He looked down to see Swagger, face flat on the deck, as if dumped loosely on his rifle, now flattened under him.

“Swagger!” he yelled.

He bent, touched the man’s neck for pulse and found the feeblest excuse for one, a weak pumping. A pool of blood began to roll across the deck, vibrating as the pilot powered on and revved the torque.

“Swagger?”

He pulled him half up, saw the chalk-white face, the unfocused eyes, just the faintest tremor of breath.

“Lieutenant, go to nearest shock trauma, fastest, someplace set up with helicopter pad, fastest. I say again, fastest! Copilot, radio ahead, tell them we have medical emergency incoming, severe gunshot trauma, lung or chest. Get people on roof to get him into surgery. I say again: Emergency! Emergency! Emergency!”

“Roger, FBI, wilco,” came the reply.

1504.082

Where had it gone? It had vanished—rifle, helicopter, target. Someone was yelling. It was Nick.

“SWAGGER!”

Nick yelled again, from farther out.

“SWAGGER!”

Where had he gone?

“SWAGGER?”

“SWAGGER!”

It was so far away.

“SWAGGER!”

62

Cascade, Idaho

Spring

Fall came hard, winter harder. Bleak, even savage, months, with harsh winds and blankets of snow that lay across the prairie like the base coat for the end of the world in ice. He saw none of it.