Page 143 of Into the Fire

Evan finished assembling the Ballista, configuring it for the .338 Lapua chambering and slotting in the ten-round box mag. Then he cycled the bolt, flung open the balcony door, and set up on the railing. His right pupil was still blown, but he could use his preferred eye—a bit of luck on this endlessly luckless mission.

Behind him the bone-phone squawked. “Team One, come in, over. Team One? Team Two, come in.”

Way below, the white van coasted out of view. It would emerge any second onto Grand.

He didn’t have a range card for the new rifle, but it had been zeroed at four hundred yards. He needed to range the target, so he swung the scope, looking for a standard-dimension object. A half second later, he locked on to a stop sign near the kill zone.

City stop signs are standard anywhere in the United States. Thirty inches across the red octagon. White border just shy of an inch. Five feet from the bottom of the sign to the pavement. Using the stop sign as a measurement reference point, Evan calculated his hold-under and cosign compensation and focused in on the scope. At three hundred yards, if he held under ten minutes of angle, he’d be right on.

The white van emerged beneath him, a dot in the stream of traffic driving directly away. An optical illusion made it appear to be rising before him, an air bubble in an IV tube. It disappeared behind a high-rise. Materialized on the other side.

An image rushed him—Peter in the back of the van, his charcoal eyes flat with shock. Maybe they’d knocked him out for ease of transport.

Had they taken him from his school? Removed him with a show of false authority and the flash of a badge? Or simply snatched him from a sidewalk?

They’d taken him as a contingency plan to control Mia if the execution didn’t go smoothly in the hotel. And once Peter was no longer necessary, they would handle him the way they’d handled Grant Merriweather and Lorraine Lennox and anyone else who’d gotten tangled in their web.

At the thought Evan’s heart rate quickened, a thumping in his neck. A headache spread its steel fingers through the back of his skull.

And then—all at once—the view through the scope got soupy.

He pulled his head away, his face washed with sweat. Not now.

He blinked hard and put his face back onto the stock, in line with the scope. The van was a blur, moving among other blurs. The road was full, and as his vision doubled, it grew fuller yet, phantom vehicles appearing and blending into one another. It was hard to tell which were real and which were illusory.

Five minutes of clarity. That’s all he required.

He ripped two autoinjectors of epinephrine out of his cargo pocket. Gripping them side by side in one fist, he popped the blue safety caps off with his thumbnail. Then he rammed the needles straight through the fabric of his pants into his outer thigh, holding them in place until a double click announced that the doses had administered.

Warmth surged through him, rolling up his stomach and chest, setting his mouth tingling. His vision snapped into focus with a sudden heightened lucidity.

He’d pay for it later.

Gladly.

For the first time since he’d smacked his head on that parking lot, he felt entirely clear-minded. Better than clear-minded. Like the rifle was a part of his body and he was a part of it and together they would operate like a single piece of weaponry.

Through the scope Evan zeroed in on the van once more. Aimed at the rear right tire. Tracked it as it flickered in and out of sight behind other vehicles.

He exhaled. Waited for the space between heartbeats.

And readied to apply 2.75 pounds of trigger pressure.

Mia spilled from the elevator and sprinted across the lobby, knocking over a businessman. She slammed out through the hefty front door and bulled through pedestrians, ignoring the shouts and protests.

The white van strobed into view a full block away, turning onto Grand Street.

She forged into traffic, darting up 6th Street through blaring horns and screeching brakes. Tears streaked her face.

She ran to her son.

Even over the city bustle, the crack of the round was audible.

The van’s rear tire blew. The vehicle reared up on its front tires and smashed through the picture window of Bottega Louie. Glass waterfalled, tumbling onto the sidewalk. Inside the upscale patisserie, patrons screamed and ran. One of the take-out counters shattered, spilling a rainbow of macaroons across the marble floor.

Directly above the wreckage, street signs announced the intersection of 7th and Grand.

The package, delivered right on the mark.