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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?

He got out and entered the bright zone of the store. It was sparsely populated, every clerk a composition in disinterest, and he got his stuff together in a short time, stopped for some Milky Ways and some protein bars, and got through the line quickly.

But it was too much. The melancholia broke over him quickly. Sitting on a stool at the hot dog counter in the front of the store, he quickly activated his phone and dialed the number of a pal back in Grosse Pointe.

“Hello?”

“Jimmy, it’s Jar—”

“Holy Christ, man, what are you up to? The FBI has been here, and everything.”

“I can’t explain now. It’ll be okay. Look—real quick, just send my mom an email to Shareen at AOL-dot-com. Say you heard from me, I’m fine, I’ll be in touch in a bit. That’s all.”

“Where are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Okay, I’ll send the message.”

“Great. And thanks, man. When I get out of this, we’ll have a good laugh.”

“You got it.”

He rose, put the phone in a trash can. He went back to the store proper, got another one off the shelf, and bought it, feeling very Secret Agent Man. He’d be able to present an unopened plastic-sealed phone to Juba, who’d never know he’d made a call. What were the odds that the feds were intercepting his parents’ emails?

•   •   •

Are we going anywhere? Or are we just going away?”

Juba looked at his watch, pulled over to the edge of the highway.

“Okay, little boy,” he said. “I need to make contact. Phone?”

Juba took it, ripped it from its plastic packaging, which he threw out the window, scraped clear the code of the calling card, tapped it into the phone. He had fifteen minutes.

He dialed a number.

“Yes, I am fine. I need a new pickup. Tell them I am on U.S. Route 127, just past the border of Michigan. I will stay on 127. How much time will it take to intercept?”

He paused. A car passed, then a van.

“Okay. Yes, we are in a dark blue Impala. License: Michigan L11 245. Thank you.”

He turned to Jared.

“Okay, a town called Greenville, about three hours ahead. We will go to a shopping mall on the south side of town—Walmart, not Sears. We are looking for a van, a Chevy, tan, license 276 RC678. Can you remember that?”

“No.”

“276 RC678. Pay attention.”

“What state?”

“Ohio.”

“How did they know we’d be in Ohio?”

“They know everything. Now, get rid of that phone. Sink it in water.”