Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [88]
“Whoa, you’re losing me here.”
Pendergast sprang to his feet. “And that is why she hid it from me. Because it was potentially an extremely valuable, proprietary pharmacological discovery. It had nothing to do with our personal relationship.” With a sudden, impulsive movement he grasped D’Agosta by both arms. “And I would still be stumbling around in the dark, my dear Vincent—if not for your stroke of genius.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say—”
Releasing his hold, Pendergast turned away and strode quickly toward the library door. “Come on—there’s no time to lose.”
“Where are we going?” D’Agosta asked, hurrying to follow, his mind still in a whirl of confusion, trying to piece together Pendergast’s chain of logic.
“To confirm your suspicions—and to learn, once and for all, what it all must mean.”
41
THE SHOOTER SHIFTED POSITION IN THE DAPPLED shade, took a swig of water from the camouflaged canteen. He dabbed the sweatband around his wrist against each temple in turn. His movements were slow, methodical, completely hidden in the labyrinth of brush.
It wasn’t really necessary to be so careful. There was no way the target would ever see him. However, years of hunting the other kind of prey—the four-legged variety, sometimes timid, sometimes preternaturally alert—had taught him to use exquisite caution.
It was a perfect blind, a large deadfall of oak, Spanish moss thrown across its face like spindrift, leaving only a few tiny chinks, through one of which he had poked the barrel of his Remington 40-XS tactical rifle. It was perfect because it was, in fact, natural: one of the results of Katrina still visible everywhere in the surrounding forests and swamps. You saw so many that you stopped noticing them.
That’s what the shooter was counting on.
The barrel of his weapon protruded no more than an inch beyond the blind. He was in full shade, the barrel itself was sheathed in a special black nonreflective polymer, and his target would emerge into the glare of the morning sun. The gun would never be spotted even when fired: the flash hider on the muzzle would ensure that.
His vehicle, a rented Nissan four-by-four pickup with a covered bed, had been backed up to the blind; he was using the bed as a shooting platform, lying inside it with the tailgate down. The nose pointed down an old logging trail running east. Even if someone saw him and gave chase, it would be the work of thirty seconds to slide from the truck bed into the cab, start the engine, and accelerate down the trail. The highway, and safety, were just two miles away.
He wasn’t sure how long he would have to wait—it could be ten minutes, it could be ten hours—but that didn’t matter. He was motivated. Motivated, in fact, like he’d never been in his life. No, that wasn’t quite true: there had been one other time.
The morning was hazy and dew-heavy, and in the darkness of the blind the air felt sluggish and dead. So much the better. He dabbed at his temples again. Insects droned sleepily, and he could hear the fretful squeaking and chattering of voles. They must have a nest nearby: it seemed the damn things were everywhere in the lowland swamps these days, ravenous as lab rabbits and almost as tame.
He took another swig of water, did another check of the 40-XS. The bipod was securely placed and locked. He eased the bolt open; made sure the .308 Winchester was seated well; snicked the bolt home again. Like most dedicated marksmen, he preferred the stability and accuracy of a bolt-action weapon; he had three extra rounds in the internal magazine, just in case, but the point of a Sniper Weapon System was to make the first shot count and he didn’t plan on having to use them.
Most important was the Leupold Mark 4 long-range M1 scope. He looked through it now, targeting the dot reticule first on the front door of the plantation