that the built-in suppressor created. And because of the low
power and the suppressor’s complex exhaust gas management
scheme there was very little recoil. Almost none at all. Just the
gentlest little kick imaginable. It was a fine rifle. With a good
scope like the Hensoldt it was a guaranteed killer at any range
up to two hundred yards. And the man with his eye to the scope
was only a hundred and twenty-six yards from Armstrong’s
back gate. He knew that for an exact fact, because he had just
checked the distance with a laser range finder. He was exposed
to the weather, but he was adequately prepared. He knew how
to do this. He was wearing a dark green down coat and a black
hat made of synthetic fleece. He had gloves made from the
same material, with the right-hand fingertips cut off for control.
He was lying down out of the wind, which kept his eyes clear of
tears. He anticipated absolutely no problems at all.
The way a man goes through a gate works like this: he stops
walking momentarily. He stands still. He has to, whichever way
the gate hinges. If it hinges towards him, he reaches out for the
latch and flips it open and pulls the gate and kind of stands on
tiptoe and arches his legs so the gate can swing past them. If it
hinges away from him, he stands still while he finds the latch
and pushes it open. That’s faster, but there’s still a moment
where there’s no real forward motion at all. And this particular
gate opened towards the house. That fact was clearly visible
through the Hensoldt. There was going to be a two-second
window of perfect opportunity.
Armstrong reached the gate. Stopped walking. One hundred
and twenty-six yards away the man with his eye to the scope
nudged the rifle a fraction left until the target was exactly
centred. Held his breath. Eased his finger back. Took up the
slack in the trigger. Then he squeezed it all the way. The rifle
coughed loudly and kicked gently. The bullet took a hair over
four-tenths of a secom[ to travel the hundred and twenty-six
yards. It hit Armstrong with a wet thump high on the forehead. It penetrated his skull and followed a downward angle through
his frontal lobe, through his central ventricles, through his
cerebellum. It shattered his first vertebra and exited at the base
of his neck through soft tissue near the top of his spinal cord. It
162
flew on and struck the ground eleven feet farther back and
buried itself deep in the earth.
Armstrong was clinically dead before he hit the ground. The
bullet’s path caused massive brain trauma and its kinetic
energy pulsed outward through brain tissue and was reflected
back by the inside of the skull bones like a big wave in a small
swimming pool. The resulting damage was catastrophic. All
brain function ceased before gravity dropped the body.
One hundred and twenty-six yards away the man with his eye
to the scope lay perfectly still for a second.Then he cradled the
rifle flat against his torso and rolled away until it was safe to
stand. He racked the rifle’s bolt and caught the hot shell case in
his gloved hand and dropped it into his pocket. Moved backward
into cover and then walked away, completely shielded
from view.
Neagley was uncharacteristically quiet in the car. Maybe she
was worried about the day ahead. Maybe she could sense the
altered chemistry. Reacher didn’t know, and either way he
wasn’t in a hurry to find out. He just sat quiet while Froelich
battled the traffic. She looped northwest and used the Whitney
Young bridge across the river and drove past the RFK football
stadium. Then she took Massachusetts Avenue and stayed
away from the congestion around the government part of town.
But Mass Ave was slow itself, and it was nearly nine o’clock
before they arrived in Armstrong’s Georgetown street. She
parked behind another Suburban near the mouth of the tent. An
agent stepped off the sidewalk and rounded the hood to talk to
her.
Fhe Spock just got here,’ he said. Fhey’ll be into Spying 101