Once Stalked. Блейк Пирс

then looked in the opposite direction, toward where the shooter must have been. She saw more scrubby hills – and countless places where a shooter might have hidden. She was sure that Larson and her team had combed the area thoroughly.

      Finally they drove down to the area where the recruits’ living quarters were. Larson took them behind one of the barracks. The first thing Riley saw was an enormous dark splotch on the wall near the back door.

      Larson said, “This is where Sergeant Worthing was killed. He seems to have come out here for a cigarette before his platoon’s morning formation. The shot was so clean that the cigarette never fell from his lips.”

      Riley’s interest quickened. This scene was different from the others – and much more informative. She examined the blotch and the smear that spread down below it.

      She said, “It looks like he was leaning against the wall when the bullet hit him. You must have been able to get a much better idea of the bullet’s trajectory than you could for the others.”

      “Much better,” Larson agreed. “But not the precise location.”

      Larson pointed across the field behind the barracks to where hills began to rise.

      “The shooter must have positioned himself somewhere between those two valley oaks,” she said. “But he cleaned up very carefully afterward. We couldn’t find a trace of him in any likely location.”

      Riley saw that the distance between the small trees was about twenty feet. Larson and her team had done good work narrowing the area down that much.

      “What kind of weather was it?” Riley asked.

      “Very clear,” Larson said. “There was a three-quarter moon out almost until dawn.”

      Riley felt a tingle down her back. It was a familiar feeling that she got when she was about to really connect with a crime scene.

      “I’d like to go out and have a look for myself,” she said.

      “Certainly,” Larson said. “I’ll take you there.”

      Riley didn’t know how to tell her that she wanted to go by herself.

      Fortunately, Bill spoke up for her.

      “Let’s let Agent Paige go alone. It’s kind of her thing.”

      Larson nodded appreciatively

      Riley strode out across the field. With every step, that tingling grew stronger.

      Finally, she found herself between the two trees. She could see why Larson’s team hadn’t been able to find the exact spot. The ground was highly irregular with lots of smaller bushes. Just in that area, there were at least a half dozen excellent places to squat or lie and fire a clean shot toward the barracks.

      Riley began to walk back and forth between the trees. She knew that she wasn’t looking for anything that the shooter might have left behind – not even footprints. Larson and her team wouldn’t have missed anything like that.

      She took some slow breaths and imagined herself here in the very early hours in the morning. The stars were just starting to disappear, and the moon still cast shadows all around.

      The feeling grew stronger by the second – a sense of the killer’s presence.

      Riley took a few more deep breaths and prepared to enter the killer’s mind.

      CHAPTER TEN

      Riley began to imagine the killer. What had he felt, thought, and observed when he came here looking for the perfect spot to shoot from? She wanted to become the killer, as nearly as she could, in order to track him down. And she could do that. It was her gift.

      First, she knew, he had to find that spot.

      She searched about, just as he must have searched.

      As she moved around, she felt a mysterious, almost magnetic pull.

      She was drawn to a red willow bush. To one side of the bush, there was a space between its branches and the ground. There was a slightly hollow place in the ground at that very spot.

      Riley stooped down and looked carefully at the ground.

      The soil in that hollow place was neat and smooth.

      Too neat, Riley thought. Too smooth.

      The rest of the soil in this area was rougher, more irregular.

      Riley smiled.

      The killer had gone to such lengths to tidy up after himself that he’d betrayed his exact position.

      Imagining the scene by moonlight, Riley gazed down the slope and across the field toward the back of the barracks.

      She pictured what the killer saw from this place – the distant figure of Sergeant Worthing stepping out of the back door.

      Riley felt a smile form on the killer’s face.

      She could hear him think …

      “Right on schedule!”

      And just as the killer had expected, the sergeant lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall.

      It was time to act – and it had to be quick.

      The sky was starting to brighten where the sun would soon rise.

      As the killer must have done, Riley stretched out prone in the hollow place on the ground. Yes, it was the perfect place, the perfect shape for wielding a high-powered weapon.

      But how did the weapon feel in the killer’s hands?

      Riley had never actually handled an M110 sniper rifle. But some years ago she had trained a little with the weapon’s predecessor, the M24. Fully loaded and assembled, the M24 had weighed about sixteen pounds, and Riley had read that the M110 was scarcely any lighter.

      But the night scope added to that weight, making it a little top heavy.

      Riley imagined the view through the night scope. The image of Sergeant Worthing was mottled and grainy.

      That wasn’t a problem for true marksmanship. For a skilled sniper, the shot would be easy. Even so, Riley sensed that the killer felt vaguely unsatisfied.

      What was it that bothered him?

      What was he thinking?

      Then his thought came to her …

      “I wish I could see the look on his face.”

      Riley felt a jolt of understanding.

      This killing was deeply personal – an act of hatred, or at the very least contempt.

      But he wasn’t going to put it off on account of his dissatisfaction. He could do this just fine without seeing his prey’s expression.

      She felt the resistance from the trigger as she pulled it, then the sharp recoil from the rifle as the bullet was fired.

      The noise of the shot wasn’t very loud. The sound suppressor and the flash hider had muffled the noise and the burst of flame.

      Even so, did the killer worry that someone had heard it?

      Only for a moment, Riley felt sure. He had shot two other men from much the same distance, and no one seemed to have heard the shots. Or if they had heard them, no one had thought them extraordinary.

      But what did the killer do now that he’d fired the shot?

      He kept looking through the scope, Riley realized.

      He followed the body in its slouch against the wall toward an awkward squat.

      And again the killer thought …

      “I wish I could see the look on his face.”

      As the killer must have done, Riley got to her feet. She imagined the killer taking a wide brush to the soil to smooth it over, then leaving the way he’d come.

      Riley breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Her attempt to link with the killer’s mind had revealed more than