Sniper One

by Roy F. Chandler

  Then Gilroy had it. He would lay his golden bell on Clicker's chest. It was probable that Bell had bragged all over the mountains about how he had discovered the bells in the Iraq war.

  Hell, maybe Bell was now famous for finding the shield.

  The shield could have been there along with the camel bones. Deladier certainly believed it possible. Gilroy planned to check the newspapers on that detail.

  +++

  Times were good. There had been more than usual rain throughout the fall, and it had come in repeated rainy days that allowed sinking in with almost no runoff. The last hay crop had been extraordinary, and the range cattle were sleek. The game animals had faired especially well, and antlers were long and thick.

  This year, Greg Maynard studied the ranch through different eyes. It was no longer a Sixplex; he owned three fifths of the outfit, and expected another fifth would soon follow. He had never been fond of the ranch's name, and guessed he would change it before too long.

  Maynard knew he had good luck to thank for most of it. Apple had come along at just the right time, and he had been into Microsoft early enough to have enjoyed the incredible growth of that company.

  Even Clicker Bell had contributed. Shortly after the Gulf War, Bell had said, "Harley- Davidson has gone public. We ought to get into that, Colonel."

  "Are you nuts, Bell? Motorcycles aren't going anywhere, and...."

  "You been watching their stock, Colonel?"

  "Well, yeah, but I'm not into that weird stuff. The high tech stocks are the hot ones."

  "OK, you stay out, but I'd like you to put some of my hard earned bucks into Harley. Will you do that for me?"

  Maynard had invested five thousand dollars of Clicker Bell's money with Harley-Davidson, and in so doing he had looked closer at the motorcycle company. Impressed by inexplicable public interest, he decided to divert some of his own funds into the fast-rising Harley market.

  Since its first offering, Harley stock had now risen more than seventeen hundred percent. Maynard and Bell had ridden the wave, and although no longer holding Harley investments, they acknowledged HD's help toward financial independence.

  Maynard still wondered how Clicker Bell had singled that one out. Probably because he liked Harleys. Bell had never come up with another suggestion and clearly had little interest in the investing of money. So be it. As the war-shattered Lieutenant had invested Forest Gump's dough, so would Maynard see to his friend's security.

  And Sydney and Bell were making progress, although desperately slow to Maynard's eyes. With the golden shield venture behind, and Gilroy probably dead—and Deladier resisting every official query from his bastions in France—the world seemed brighter.

  Maynard attempted to put his ducks in line. There was the fall hunting, and that was a special time of the year.

  Shelby Grant was planning on introducing the world to the Shield of the Great Khan sometime after the first of the year. A gift to the New Millennium, he claimed.

  Clicker would probably force himself to say the right words by spring, and a wedding would follow.

  Now, if the remaining partner would agree to a reasonable price for his share of the ranch.... Well, Maynard could not see it getting much better.

  On his walk from his parking spot to the big house Maynard's eyes automatically swung to the gap in the tree line where they had thought a sniper might someday appear. The rifle on its stand had long been removed, and the second story window was closed and curtained, but old habits are hard to break.

  Greg Maynard actually walked a pair of steps before he realized what he had seen. Then he had to battle a terrible urge to look again. It would be too late anyway. Only from that single spot was a head silhouetted against the sky. He knew what he had seen, however. He had looked for it for months before they went to Iraq. Now, as improbable as it might seem, there was someone up in that perfect spot looking back. Maynard managed to continue his unhurried walk to the broad porch and into the ranch house.

  Inside, Maynard bounded toward the steps. He brushed past a maid attempting to descend and slammed into the upstairs bedroom.

  The table had been pushed to a side, but the spotting scope lay folded on top of it. Maynard dragged the table into position and mounted the spotting scope.

  Dared he raise the curtain? If it were Gilroy or someone like him the shade's movement might be seen. He touched the lower corner of the curtain and with utmost caution edged it sideward until he could see. The gable end of the house lay in shadow, and that should make it difficult for an observer on the ridge to see such a tiny movement, but Maynard felt his skin crawl at the possibility of staring into a telescopic sight's objective lens.

  He positioned the scope and pulled close the stool they had used for sighting. Focusing took forever, but he finally got the ridge into rough focus and began to traverse until he was on the probable observation point

  Maynard focused more finely, and there he was. Or there something was that shouldn't be there. He could distinguish little more than an ill-defined lump. There was no head shape, and he saw no rifle. Whoever was hunkered in out there was down very low and had camouflaged everything possible.

  Maynard was torn between watching and calling Clicker Bell, but the Gunny would want details. Maynard had to know more.

  Bell had taught him a lot about observing, and Maynard began a meticulous study of every detail he could make out. It was still a long minute before he could safely believe that the person scouting the ranch held binoculars to his face. Damn, the man had camouflage material over everything, and the Colonel judged the sniper had a veil covering all but his eyes. It was enough. Maynard withdrew to a comfortable chair and using his ever present cellular dialed Bellfs truck phone.

  The truck phone blew the truck horn for an eternity, but Bell did not pick up.

  Where in hell could he be? Clicker and Sydney had driven out to glass for game hours ago. They should be ... that damned Bell couldn't be—or could he? Maynard buried his suspicions and forced his mind back to what was important. He dialed Clicker's pager.

  Five long minutes passed before Maynard's phone rang.

  "Bell on this end, Colonel."

  Furious at the delay, Maynard said, "Where in hell have you been, Clicker? This is important"

  "We're over on the north ridge up above the big creek, Colonel. We were a long way from the truck. Sydney is still catching up. What is important?"

  Maynard smoothed his feathers and controlled his voice. "There's a sniper looking at the ranch house from that hide you set up."

  Maynard was grateful that Bell did not say, "Are you sure?" Most would have.

  Instead Bell asked, "What can you see, Colonel?"

  "Not a hell of a lot, but I can see a well camouflaged head with binoculars. I am sure of that. I can't see a rifle, although I've looked hard."

  "How are you looking at him, Greg?" Clicker was clearly worried.

  "I've got the spotting scope on him from the upstairs window, but the curtain's pulled, and the window is closed. I am peering around one corner of the curtain, which isn't all that good."

  Bell was silent for a moment before answering.

  "All right, here's what we've got to do.

  "First, get one of the maids to begin opening every window and curtain in the house. Have her start at the front of the building and work to the end before she goes upstairs. Just tell her you want to air the house—and right now. Don't let her in on anything. That clear?"

  "Jawohl, Herr Obermeister Groupen Fuhrer!"

  Bell ignored the black humor. "While she is doing that, you get the Remington out of the gun cabinet. It's the one with the old mortar round packing taped on for a cheek rest"

  "I know the gun."

  "Now this is important. I set the scope at its lowest power, the way we always do, so you'll have to dial in the correct zero. I can't remember what it is, but I've got it written in tape on the side of the stock. At least, I think it's still there. I hope to he
ll it is, because otherwise we will be going on guess work."

  Maynard cut in. "I've been walking while you were talking, Click. I'm at the gun cabinet Hold on for a moment"

  Bell heard him fumbling with the locked cabinet door.

  Listening to the last part, Sydney tried to catch up. She heard the intensity in his voice and asked, "What is it, Clicker?"

  Bell said, "There's a sniper up in that hide we made above the ranch house. Your Dad's going to try to get a rifle on him. Hang on a minute until we finish this call."

  Clicker could feel the girl's fear rise, but she stayed quiet and waited with him.

  The Colonel came back on. "OK, I've got the rifle, and the zero is on the side. As soon as Mrs. Manley gets the window open I'll set the gun up just like we had it before."

  "Way to go, but Greg, get rid of anything that might flash. Be sure the hall door is closed so that the room is really black. And Greg, take your time getting that rifle bagged in exactly right. Eight hundred yards is a good piece to hit a human head with certainty."

  "Hell, Click. Aren't you coming in to make the shot? God, it might not even be an enemy up there. I don't think I'm that good of a shooter to....

  Clicker interrupted. "What you will do is get all set, Colonel. If you see a rifle—shoot. Don't wait and don't wonder, just shoot. Hold for the center of whatever you see and squeeze as if it was on the range.

  "After your shot, don't look up to see what you've hit because it's too far and you won't see anything. If you miss, he might be able to shoot back, so drop down and crawl out of there. Don't go back in until I show up. Don't show yourself, either, and if you shoot, get on the phone to me. I'll probably be out of the truck so just call my pager, and I will answer when I can."

  "What will you be doing, Click?"

  "I'm going to come in on him from the rear. With luck I'll catch him still looking at the house, but Colonel, if you see a rifle, shoot him. Don't take any chances on his slipping away and maybe nailing us when we don't have an advantage like this."

  "God, I wonder who it could be?"

  "It is more than likely my old buddy, Gilroy. Your description sounds like a trained man, and despite all of the wannabes out there, most aren't that good."

  Bell cut off the talk. "I'm out of here, Colonel. If you have to shoot make it good. I'll be listening once I am close enough."

  Maynard had another question. "What about Sydney?"

  "She'll be with the truck, and she will have the telephone. I'll send her up on Parker's Knob where she will be way out of it, but where I can get to her or the truck fast, if I need to."

  Bell sounded impatient. "Anything else?"

  "Just good hunting and be careful, Click."

  "Same to you, Colonel."

  Chapter 16

  It had been easy. Once across the Texas/Mexico border, Gilroy had ridden a Greyhound to Kansas. His first stop in the familiar state had been at a large gun, coin, and knife show. There he had purchased new ID.

  Every show did not have identification for sale, but some did. Gilroy had often examined vendors' offerings with interest. Now he bought. When he left the show, Todd Gilroy had enough cards to fool a casual check. He laminated and aged his purchases by gentle mutilations until they could comfortably pass as the stuff almost anyone would have in his wallet. Then Gilroy went home.

  Contacting Henri Deladier and organizing a blackmail routine was high on his priority list. Using his new ID, Gilroy signed up for a cell phone. The enthusiastic salesman rushed ahead, twenty dollars down, a month of free service, and—by then Gilroy expected to be long gone.

  He would demand the rest of his hide-pointing payment from Deladier. He had done the job and suffered big for it. Then....

  All of that would wait, however. Killing the man who had shot him led everything. Even the thought of Clicker Bell ate at Gilroy's liver. First Bell, then the money.

  He slid into his house through a cellar door, but he detected no signs of other invasion.

  That figured. If the police actually wanted to speak with him, they would keep a casual eye out, and if he showed up, he would be questioned concerning the letter said to have been sent by him.

  If he were caught, Gilroy intended to deny everything and claim a vicious plot was being used against him. Giacamo died in Texas. The Colonel was shot in Wyoming, Deladier was from France, and he, the suspect, was from Kansas. That would be a difficult case to investigate, much less prosecute. Still, Gilroy played it safe and stayed out of sight.

  He removed weapons from his Fort Knox gun safe and chose sniping gear. His would be military sniping executed by the book while using the skills he had learned more than a decade ago at Stone Bay Scout Sniper School.

  Staff Sergeant Bell had taught that school, and they had both bought their sniper equipment from Saigon Sam's which had a special corner commemorated to Marine Corps sniping and provided the otherwise unobtainable gear for those who followed the great snipers of the past.

  When he had left the Corps, Todd Gilroy had hung onto his camouflaged equipment. His rifle was a close copy of the Corps' M40A1 and as familiar to his hands as the official rifle had been. Handling the piece reminded Gilroy of how he had laid in wait for Giacamo to walk into view. The shot had been almost too easy, only three hundred yards across flat ground. Hit through the lungs and probably the heart, Giacamo had collapsed, and Gilroy supposed he was dead within an instant.

  When he thought about it, Todd Gilroy wished he could have been eliminating Ex-Gunnery Sergeant Bell, but the money was so good that it did not matter—at that time. Now it was different, and Gilroy would make this shot for free.

  Clicker Bell might or might not be expecting him. It would make no difference, Gilroy had always been the better man, and this time he would drive the point home with a 168 grain Sierra MatchKing bullet.

  He would use utmost caution. He would scout thoroughly and carefully plan his shot. Gilroy again wondered if he could somehow leave his golden bell on his enemy's chest. That would be a cherry on the sundae.

  Scouting the Sixplex, evaluating Bell's movements, and trying to figure a safe and certain shot took time. There was an unexpected complication that made Gilroy's movements more difficult, but it might also allow him to get away with his act again disguised.

  Hunting season was in. That meant hunters out in the hills looking at and for game. Although the roads and highways were busy with pickup-riding hunters going and coming, Gilroy detected only a few riflemen working on the Sixplex game animals, and those hunters searched far from the ranch buildings.

  Unfortunately, the Sixplex hunters and game glassers tended to be skilled at their hobby, and Gilroy decided to remain holed up during most of the daylight. He would scout at night when hunters were not in the field and gradually work himself into the perfect spot.

  After he executed Bell, he would slide away, and the ranch could wonder forever if Bell had been shot deliberately or if this time there really had been an accident.

  Damn! That plan would eliminate leaving his bell behind, but.... Gilroy decided to leave that part open until later.

  Gilroy finally found the perfect spot. Twice he had seen Bell and the Colonel sitting on the ranch house's broad porch, and he judged that they might do that with some regularity.

  Porch sitting would assure that his target was motionless. Once he found the right hide, Gilroy could take his time in determining the exact range and his hold. He would have preferred a mid-range target, something about four hundred yards, but it appeared the best he could hope for would be a slightly downhill shot from a wooded ridge about eight hundred yards out.

  Gilroy spent a full morning on the ridge searching for a decent hide. He kept his eyes open for wandering ranch hands, but he had the nearby ridges to himself and a few horses that apparently roamed wild.

  The problem was to locate a shooting stand that covered the entire porch. He needed to be off the ridge line itself lest he loom up as something not norma
lly seen. Some of the ridge offered higher ground behind—which provided perfect concealment, but Gilroy also wanted at least one covered route of withdrawal. Putting everything together took scouting, but about noon he found his hide.

  In fact, his perfect spot appeared to be the only spot. A tree that might have obscured his field of fire had fallen over and lay with its roots exposed. The tree had been down a long time, and its branches were skeletal. Gilroy found no signs of human presence or passage, and the hide had three practical get-away routes.

  The porch was empty, and Gilroy began working at range estimation. He had a small Bushnell range finder, but its maximum range was eight hundred yards, and Gilroy judged the distance to be almost exactly that. Nice! At eight hundred yards he could hit a human figure solidly in the chest every shot—provided there was no wind.

  What about wind? Mostly the breeze came in from the west, but the ranch headquarters lay in a shallow bowl, and the surrounding ridges tended to block the smaller winds.

  Today, there would be no appreciable hold off, but Gilroy would not shoot today. First, he would prepare his departure from the Big Horn Mountains by canceling out his campground reservation outside Buffalo. This night he would park his car in a nearer woods copse he had scouted for that very purpose. Following his shot he would drive away unremarked and be on the interstate highway within an hour.

  When he came in tomorrow, Gilroy would be ready to stay until Bell put himself in the crosshair. It appeared that Clicker Bell showed up at the ranch headquarters most days, and sat on the porch some of those days. Gilroy planned to hunker down, sleep well during the dark, and simply wait until the shot was right.

  If Bell went away, Gilroy would continue to wait. The bastard would be back sooner or later. Gilroy would practice patience, and Bell himself had taught that patience was often the key to successful sniping.