Die Trying by Lee Child

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