shooter’s vibration disturbs the muzzle by even a hundredth of an inch,
the bullet will be eight-point-three inches off target. About the
width of a man’s head.
So Reacher’s technique was to wait. Just to gaze through the sight
until his breathing was regular and his heartbeat was slow. Then to
tighten the trigger, finger slowly and wait some more. Then to count
the heartbeats. One-and-two-and-three-and-four. Keep on waiting until
the rhythm was slow. Then to fire between beats. Right when the
vibration was as small as a human being could get it.
He waited. He breathed out, long and slow. His heart beat once. It
beat again. He fired. The stock jumped against his shoulder and his
view was obliterated by the blast of dust from the matting under the
muzzle. The heavy thump of the shot crashed off the mountainsides and
came back to him with a wave of whispering from the crowd. He had
missed. The running, crouching screen print with FBI daubed on its
chest was undamaged.
He let the dust settle and checked the trees. The wind was steady. He
breathed out and let his heart rate drop. He fired again. The big
rifle kicked and crashed. The dust flew. The crowd stared and
whispered. Another miss.
Two misses. He breathed steadily and fired again. A miss. And again.
Another miss. He paused for a long time. Picked up his rhythm again
and fired the fifth. He missed the fifth. The crowd was restless.
Borken lumbered nearer.
“All on the last shot,” he grinned.
Readier made no reply. No way could he afford the physical disturbance
involved in speaking. The disruption to his breathing, the muscular
contraction of his lungs and throat, would be fatal. He waited. His
heart beat. And again. He fired the sixth. He missed. He dropped
the sight and stared at the plywood target. Undamaged.
Borken was staring at him. Questions in his eyes. Readier got to his
knees and lifted the rifle. Snapped the empty magazine out. Pushed
the bolt home. Traced a finger along the neat engraving on the side of
the stock. Folded the bipod legs. Laid the warm gun neatly on the
matting. He stood up and shrugged. Borken stared at him. Glanced at
Fowler. Fowler glanced back, puzzled. They had watched a man shooting
for his life, and they had watched him miss every shot.
“You knew the rules,” Borken said quietly.
Reacher stood still. Ignored him. Gazed up at the blue sky. A pair
of vapor trails were crawling across it, like tiny chalk lines far
overhead in the stratosphere.
“Wait, sir,” Joseph Ray called loudly.
He came forward out of the crowd. Bristling with urgency.
Self-important. Things to say. He was one of the few men in the
Bastion with any actual military service behind him and he prided
himself on seeing things that other people missed. He thought it gave
him an edge. Made him useful in special ways.
He looked hard at the matting and lay himself down exactly where
Reacher had lain. Glanced down the range to the targets. Closed one
eye and stared through half his field glasses like a telescope. Focused
on the screen print of the running man. Moved his line of sight a
fraction and focused just beyond the hunch of the target’s shoulder.
Stared into the distance and nodded to himself.
“Come on,” he said.
He got to his feet and started jogging down the range. Fowler went
with him. Eight hundred and thirty yards later Ray passed the target
without a second glance. Carried on jogging. Fowler followed. Fifty
yards. A hundred. Ray dropped to his knees and stared backward.
Aligned himself with the target and the matting, way back in the far
distance. Turned and pointed forward, using his whole arm and finger
like a rifle barrel. Stood up again and walked fifty more yards to a
particular tree.
It was an orphan silver birch. A straggly wild survivor, forcing its
way up alongside the tall pines. Its trunk was contorted as it fought
for light and air, one way and then the next. It was narrow, not more
than seven or eight inches across. Six feet from the ground, it had