“You got it.”

He hefted the M40A1. At three and a third feet and almost fifteen pounds, it was too big and bulky if much repositioning was required; it was for the stationary shooter. “Then you’re a member of its Sniper Lambda Team.”

The woman nodded. “And Lambda always gets its man.”

She was telling the truth. And it meant one thing: a beyond-salvage order had gone out. Consular Operations had sent a directive to an elite squad of specialists: a directive to kill. Terminate with extreme prejudice.

The rifle was obviously well maintained and was, in its own way, a thing of beauty. The magazine held five rounds. He opened the chamber and removed a cartridge. He gave out a low whistle.

A mystery solved. It was a 458 Whisper, a cartridge made by SSK Industries, which propelled a custom six-hundred-grain very-low-drag Winchester magnum. The VLD bullets lost velocity slowly, retaining a great deal of energy even at distances exceeding a mile. But the feature that had made it irresistible was that it launched the bullet at subsonic velocities. It eliminated the cracking noise of the supersonic bullet, while the small amount of powder diminished the internal detonation. Hence the name: Whisper. Someone just a few yards away would hear nothing.

“OK, sport,” Janson said, impressed despite himself by her cool. “I need to know the location of the others. And don’t bullshit me.” With a few quick movements, he stripped the M40A1 of its magazine, and threw it high into the tree’s tangled branches, where it lodged, once more a branch among branches to the casual viewer. Then he leveled the Beretta at her head.

She glared at him for a few long moments. He returned her look with complete impassivity: he would kill her, without compunction. Only luck had prevented her from killing him.

“There’s one other guy,” she started.

Janson looked at her appraisingly. She was an antagonist, but with luck, she could be turned into an asset, someone he could use as a shield and as a source of information. She knew where the fortified positions were, where the members of the sniper team were nested.

She was also a glib and effortless liar.

With his gun hand, he reached over and cuffed her hard on the side of the head.

“Let’s not begin this relationship with lies, sweetheart,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a killer. You almost shot me, and you endangered lives of noncombatants in the effort.”

“Bullshit,” she drawled. “I knew just what the margin of error was at all times. Four feet in any direction from your torso midline. None of my shots exceeded that error margin, and the field of fire was clean before each trigger pull. Nobody was in jeopardy. Except you.”