That would fit what Bobby saw now—lights blazing on the fourth story, where there appeared to be a balcony with an elaborate wrought-iron railing.
He crossed the street, where he could get a better view. Space between the wrought-iron rails of the balcony appeared to be approximately three inches. No problem, given he trained monthly to nail a one-inch kill zone. Angle, however, became tricky; shooting straight through the three-inch gap would be a piece of cake. Trying to shoot up or shoot down more than thirty degrees, however . . .
Bobby definitely had to get off the ground.
Bobby eyed the four-story brownstone directly across from the Gagnons' and moments later was banging on the front door. While Lieutenant Jachrimo had told him uniforms had already evacuated area residents, Bobby wasn't surprised when a bright-eyed older man in a dark green robe immediately threw open the old wooden door; it was amazing how many people wouldn't leave their houses, even when surrounded by heavily armed men.
“Hey,” the man said. “Are you a cop? Because I already told the other one I wasn't leaving.”
“I need access to the top floor,” Bobby said.
“Is that a rifle?”
“Sir, this is official police business. I need access to the top floor.”
“Right. Top floor's the master bedroom. Oooh.” The man's eyes went wide. “I get it. My balcony's across from the Gagnons'. You must be a police sniper. Ooooh, can I get you anything?”
“Just the top floor, sir. Immediately.”
The man was dying to please. George Harlow was a consultant, he informed Bobby as he hastily led the way up a sweeping central staircase. He was almost always on the road, pure dumb luck he'd been home tonight at all to let Bobby in. His brownstone was smaller, not quite as nice as the others, but he owned the whole damn thing. Drove his condominium neighbors nuts speculating what the single-family dwelling must be worth. Why, just last month, a single-family townhouse in Back Bay sold for nearly ten million dollars. Ten million dollars. Yep, George's lush of a father hadn't left him such a bad inheritance after all. Of course, the property taxes were killing him.
Could George please touch the police rifle?
Bobby said no.
They arrived at the bedroom. The vast space bore hardly any furniture, let alone art on the walls. The man must travel a lot, because Bobby had seen hotel rooms with more personality. The front wall was all glass, however, with sliders right in the middle. Perfect.
“Kill the lights,” he requested.
Mr. Harlow nearly giggled as he complied.
“Do you have a table I could use? Nothing fancy. And a chair.”
Mr. Harlow had a card table. Bobby set it up while his host rounded up a metal folding chair. Bobby's breathing had accelerated. The climb up four flights? Or the adrenaline of a night that was about to officially begin?
He had now been on-scene for sixteen minutes, not bad time, but not great. More guys had probably already arrived. The perimeter was getting fine-tuned. Soon another officer would show up to serve as spotter, providing two pairs of eyes. Then would come the crisis negotiation team, finally making contact.
Bobby set up his Sig Sauer on the table. He cracked the sliders one inch, just enough for the tip of his rifle. Then he sat down in Mr. Harlow's metal chair, turned on the radio mounted in his flak vest, and started to talk into the microphone/receiver that was tucked inside his ear and worked off the vibrations of his jawbone.
“This is Sniper One, reporting in.”
“Go ahead, Sniper One,” Lieutenant Jachrimo answered back.
Bobby put his eye to the scope, and finally met the Gagnons.
Chapter
3
I
SEE THE
back of a white male subject, approximately six feet tall, short brown hair, dark blue shirt, standing approximately four feet inside a pair of French doors on the front side of the building, which I'm going to call side A of level four. The French doors are approximately forty inches across, opening outward, and are the third opening across. Opening one of level four is a double-hung window, approximately thirty inches across and seven feet tall. Opening two is another double-hung window, approximately twenty-five inches across, seven feet tall. Opening four, side A, level four, is a final double-hung window, twenty-five inches across, seven feet tall.”
Bobby reported in the details of the Gagnons' fourth floor while keeping his eye on the lone male subject. The man didn't move. Watching someone, looking for something? Both of the man's hands were in front of him, so Bobby couldn't tell if he was armed.
Using binoculars now, Bobby scanned for a woman and child, but came up empty.
The room appeared to be a bedroom with a king-sized bed planted squarely in the middle of the space, lined up parallel to the French doors. The bed was one of those elaborate, wrought-iron affairs with gauzy white fabric draped every which way. Behind the bed he could see a row of white-painted folding doors. Probably a closet. Then, over to the left, he could make out an alcove where there appeared to be another doorway. Master bath? Sitting area?
The room was large, with many hiding spaces. That made life interesting for everyone.
Bobby tried to adjust his binoculars to penetrate the shadows of the left-hand alcove, without any luck. Briefly, he scanned the other lit windows of the brownstone, but didn't encounter any signs of other occupants.
So where were the wife and child? Hidden in the drapes of fabric swathing the bed? Tucked inside a closet? Already dead on the floor?
Bobby could feel his stomach starting to tighten with tension. He forced himself to slowly breathe in, then out. Focus. Be part of the moment, but outside of the moment. Detach.
Do you know the difference between a shooter and a sniper? A shooter has a pulse. A sniper doesn't.
Bobby prepared for the long haul: He fine-tuned his rifle stand, working the stock of his rifle into the bean bag until it achieved perfect height. He moved the chair until he could lean into the table, wedging the butt of his rifle squarely into the curve of his shoulder. When the rifle felt good, tight but comfortable against his body, like another appendage, a third arm, he leaned forward and found the spot weld—the place where his cheek met the stock and his eye met the scope in such perfect alignment that the entire world suddenly seemed to fill the crosshairs. He could see anything, he could shoot anything.
He studied once again the lone male subject, now peering over the edge of the wrought-iron bed.
Bobby chambered a bonded-tip slug and slowly placed the crosshairs of his scope on the back of the man's head. His breathing was shallow, his pulse steady. He lined up his shot without a single tremor in his hand.
Police snipers practiced one thing only—to immediately incapacitate a subject who may have his finger on a trigger. Basically, month in, month out, Bobby trained to sever a man's brain stem.
He was satisfied with his position. Angle was easy, distance manageable. He would incur minor deflection from the glass of the French doors, but nothing that couldn't be handled by the 165-grain ammo. With the target stationary, he did not need to worry about inducing lead, and at a distance this short, weather and wind were not relevant factors.
He pulled away from the scope, careful not to disturb the rifle, and with his right hand made notes in his logbook. He detailed his ammo, his scope setting, and his setup. Then he picked up his binoculars, which provided a wider field of view, and again, careful not to disturb his rifle, continued monitoring the scene.
The man had moved slightly toward the foot of the bed. Bobby had a sense of growing tension, a force building to a crescendo. He couldn't place why, but then he got it.
The way the man was standing, his shoulders squared off, his elbows jutting out, his feet slightly apart. It was a dominating pose, a man puffing himself up to appear even bigger and stronger. Bobby bet if he could see the man's face now, it would be wearing an ugly snarl, a red-mottled look of rage.
Again, Bobby searched for signs of the wife and child, and again came up empty. Somewhere in that room, though, or the man would be moving. Bobby wished he could see the man's face.
With nothing immediately happening, Bobby returned to diagramming the building for his team. Following protocol, he labeled each side of the brownstone with a letter, A, B, C, or D. Given that the brownstone had adjoining units on both sides and the back, that left only the front, which he labeled A. Then he numbered each level of the townhouse, one through five, plus basement. Finally, he recorded each opening of side A, describing whether it was a window or door, giving its approximate size and numbering it left to right starting with the number one.
This yielded a uniformed chart for everyone to follow. The man was standing in front of French doors, side A, level four, opening three, or in quick shorthand when things got hopping, lone male A-four-three. No sorting through whose left or whose right. In three quick coordinates, boom, you got the job done.
The diagram completed, Bobby did his own personal check, things he'd learned from years on the job. Any sign of advanced preparation in the home? Doors barricaded, slats of wood nailed across windows? Any sign of someone trying to hide misdeeds? Blinds pulled, or furniture blocking the view, etc.? Advanced preparation was a warning sign. So were shots fired out the window or open threats of violence.
So far, everything remained quiet. No one was visible in the entire building except a lone male subject, standing four feet inside French doors, A-four-three.
Bobby took the binoculars away from his eyes and returned to viewing the room through the scope of his rifle.
With the sliders cracked he was getting a cold breeze, chilling his face and stiffening his fingers. When a spotter showed up, he'd have the guy close the sliders, but sit close enough to crack them again at a moment's notice. For now, he was okay, though. His breathing was steady, his muscles relaxed. He was finding that zone. Calm but prepared. Alert but relaxed. Aim small, miss small. He wasn't even really thinking about the card table anymore, or the cold November wind, or the fact that Mr. Harlow still lingered in the doorway behind him, eager for some kind of show.
Soon, the hostage negotiator would arrive, get the subject on the phone, and try to work out a peaceful resolution. If no one was hurt yet, the negotiator would probably convince the man to quit now, while the worst he would suffer was a little embarrassment. If the family was injured, or worse, dead, then things would get trickier. But the crisis management team was good. Just last year, Bobby had watched the lead negotiator, Al Hanson, convince three escaped felons to surrender peacefully, when all three criminals were facing life in prison and had nothing to lose by shooting it out.
Afterwards, Bobby's LT had gone up to each prisoner, clapped them on the shoulder, and thanked them sincerely for giving up.
These situations always started with so much adrenaline, testosterone, and generally nutty hype. Then Bobby's team showed up and worked on toning it all back down. No reason for rash action. No need for violence. Let's just go through the paces, my man, and it'll all work out fine.
Movement. Across the street, the suspect suddenly twisted, walking to the right in an agitated fashion. Bobby finally caught a glimpse of a handgun.
“White male subject, moving in front of French doors, A-four-three. I see what appears to be a nine-millimeter handgun in right hand. White female,” Bobby declared suddenly, voice slightly triumphant. “Long black hair, dark red top, appears to be kneeling or sitting behind bed, fifteen feet inside French doors, A-four-three. White child, dark hair, pressed against the female. Small, maybe two or three years of age.”
Lieutenant Jachrimo's voice came over the receiver. “Is the woman or child moving? Any sign of injuries?”
Bobby frowned. Harder to tell. The man cut in front of his view again, pacing rapidly now, right hand waving his gun. Bobby zeroed in on the man's weapon, seeking more details. Tough, with the man moving. Bobby zoomed back out, trying to get a sense of the lone male subject instead, how he held the nine-millimeter, how he moved around the room. An experienced gun handler? An agitated amateur? Also hard to determine.
The man shifted right and now Bobby could tell that the woman was yelling something. She had the child—a boy, maybe?—held tight against her, his face turned into her chest, her hands covering his ears.
Things were happening. Sudden, fast. Bobby couldn't tell what had sparked the commotion, but now the man was screaming. Through the scope Bobby could see the spittle flying from the man's lips, muscles cording on his neck. It was surreal: to watch such explosive rage and never hear a sound.
The woman stood up, child still clutched against her chest. Now she'd stopped yelling, seeming to have reached some sort of conclusion. The man screamed violently; she simply stared at him.
Abruptly, the man leveled his gun at the woman's head. He held out his left hand, as if motioning for the child.
“Male subject drawing down on female,” Bobby heard himself report. “Male subject pointing a handgun—”
The man still had his gun aimed at the woman's head, but was now rounding the bed, fast, furious. She didn't say a word, didn't budge a step. Then the man was
right there,
yelling ferociously and, with his left hand, tugging at the child.
The boy peeled away from his mother's chest. Bobby had a sudden, fleeting glimpse of a small, pale face with dark, wild eyes. The kid was scared out of his mind.
“Male subject has child. Male subject is shoving child across the room.”
Away from his mother. Away from whatever was about to happen next.
Bobby was in the
now,
part of the moment, but outside the moment. He worked the scope, minor adjustments as natural to him as taking a breath. Shifting slightly left, inducing a fraction of lead as the male subject pushed his son to the end of the bed, then stepped back toward his wife.