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“How.”
She told him.
50
Holly sat on a folding chair in the steeple of the church of Santa Maria, next to an FBI marksman with a sniper’s rifle. It was a quarter to ten, and they had an excellent view of the churchyard and part of the square.
“I hope to God they don’t ring the bells,” the marksman said.
Holly handed him a pair of earplugs; she had already inserted hers.
“How many more people have we got, besides you and me?” the agent asked.
“Close to thirty,” she said. “Between the Bureau and the Lauderdale department, we’ve got a dozen guns in the square, and all the approach streets are being watched.”
“Shit,” the man said, “I hope somebody else doesn’t get the shot.”
Holly reflected on how she had felt when she had shot Trini Rodriguez’s brother, and compared it to this agent’s eagerness to get a kill. No comparison. This guy wanted another notch on his rifle stock. She looked at the weapon, but there were no notches.
“How many people have you taken out?” she asked.
“Over twelve years, nine,” he replied. “FBI and police snipers don’t get shots as often as you would think. More often than not, it’s a hostage situation, and the suspect surrenders or shoots himself.” He took aim at something in the churchyard and made a minute adjustment to his gunsight. His weapon was mounted on a tripod, so that the barrel would not protrude from the steeple, making it visible to an opponent.
“What do you shoot for?”
“The head,” he replied. “In most of these situations, you’ve got a suspect who’s trying to kill cops or threatening to kill a hostage. You don’t want to gut-shoot him, because he might still be able to empty his weapon, and a chest shot won’t incapacitate him every time, either. What you want to see through your scope is an exploding head.”
Holly gave a little shudder.
“Position one, this is position three.”
Holly picked up her handheld radio. She was position one, and position three was a soft-drink delivery truck on a corner of the square. “Three, this is one.”
“We’ve got a couple of funeral-home limos approaching from the northwest.”
“Those will contain family and friends,” Holly said. “Don’t bother watching them; look for any threat to them.”
“Roger,” the cop said.
Holly saw the two limos now, driving slowly. The hearse had already delivered the two coffins to the church, and now the two long, black cars parked next to the hearse near the front entrance. This was the first real opportunity for a shooter to get a shot at Marina.
“Condition red,” a commander said over the radio. That meant maximum readiness.
The sniper next to Holly swung his weapon slowly back and forth through his assigned target area, looking for a gun barrel or a vehicle that seemed suspect.
Seven or eight people, Marina among them, got out of the two cars and walked slowly up the front walk and into the church. Forty or fifty other people were already inside, having arrived earlier.
“Condition blue,” the commander said. That meant that the snipers could relax; the onus was now on the officers inside the church. Organ music wafted up into the steeple: Bach, Holly thought. The choir joined in.
“That’s nice,” the sniper said, leaning back in his chair and taking out his earplugs. “I don’t often get a job that has musical accompaniment.”
Holly removed her earplugs, too, to better hear the music. It was comforting, somehow, fulfilling the composer’s intention. The piece ended, and the priest began to chant something; the words were unintelligible up in the steeple, but Holly thought it sounded like Latin. Then he seemed to change to English, but she could still pick up only a word or two, here and there.
“You’re up the coast at Orchid Beach?” the sniper asked.
“That’s right.”
“The wife and I have driven through there; seems like a nice spot.”
