In the second or two left before engagement, Dar realized the absurdity of the situation. At this range, with this ammunition, factoring in for gravity alone meant that his aiming point was more than sixteen feet above the window level of the vehicle. The target would be moving almost at right angles to Dar’s field of fire—which was good—but if Yaponchik was braking to only thirty miles per hour for the sharp curve, Dar would have to lead the moving vehicle by twenty-some feet. Dar had already estimated that he only had about thirty-five feet from the time the Suburban became visible before it would pass his aiming point. He could not track this target, so he would have to “trap” it—which meant that the Suburban and the SLAP rounds had to arrive at the aiming point at the same time. Luckily, the Suburban was one big fucker. All right, factor in the time it would take for Syd to give the warning and—

“Now!” said Syd.

Dar was just at the end of his breathing cycle and now he held his breath and gently squeezed the trigger once. Trying to ignore the recoil while resetting the crosshair of the reticle on precisely the same part of the boulder, he fired again, sighted, fired again, sighted, fired again, sighted—something dark entering his peripheral field of vision now—and fired again.

“Hit!” said Syd.

“Just one?” asked Dar, jumping to his feet and using the Redfield scope on the lighter M40 for his own viewing.

The Chevy Suburban had lurched to the right and embedded its right front quarter panel in the road cut just beyond the boulder that had been Dar’s aiming point. Through the scope, it looked to Dar as if he had missed the cab but put two armor-piercing rounds into or through the massive V-8 engine block. The hood had been blown off and the windshield was a mass of fracture lines. A third slug appeared to have shredded the left rear wheel—and probably the axle beyond, as well, Dar guessed—and there was the shimmer of fire rising from the back of the truck. There had been no massive and instant explosion, but Dar knew that if he had ignited the Suburban’s gargantuan fuel tank, the truck would burn very nicely.

The flames became visible then. Dar kept the scope on the passenger-side door, knowing that the doors on the right of the big truck were wedged against the dirt-and-rock cut.

For a moment Dar was certain that Gregor Yaponchik was going to burn to death—black smoke was already rising into the morning air from the now freely burning back of the vehicle—but then the door opened and Yaponchik stepped out casually. He was carrying a weapon, but the shape did not look right—not even through the mirage shimmer and distortion—to be the suppressed SVD he had been using above the cabin.

“He has a rifle,” said Syd just as Dar dropped to his knees, lay prone, and used the ten-power Ultra scope on the Light Fifty to get a better look.

“Shit,” Dar said very softly. Yaponchik’s face was still a blur through the mirage ripples, but Dar could recognize the make of the rifle by a glimpse of its unusual five-round rotating-spool magazine. “Scharfschutzengewehr Neunund-sechsig,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” said Syd, lowering her binoculars.

“Austrian-made SSG 69 sniper rifle,” said Dar, watching the Russian walk off the road and down the steep hillside toward the near mile of field that separated them. “Much better than the Russian rifle he was using near the cabin. This baby is accurate to more than eight hundred meters.”

Syd looked at him, and out of the corner of his eye, Dar saw the concern on her face. “But your fifty-caliber has a better range, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Dar, standing again and studying the advancing man through his Redfield scope. He was a tiny figure rippled by heat waves.

“You can kill him long before we’re in range of his rifle, right?” said Syd.

“Right,” said Dar. Yaponchik had entered the sunflowers and high grass of the meadow and was walking straight toward them across the broad, brown expanse. Dar began slinging his M40 rifle to a proper support. He emptied his pockets of everything but three magazines of 7.62mm ammo and jumped off the boulder. He began walking down toward the field.

Syd ran after him.

“Go on back to the boulder,” Dar said softly.

“Fuck you,” said Syd, although without heat. “What is this, some sort of machismo bullshit?”

Dar was silent for a second. Then he said, “Yeah, maybe. Or maybe Yaponchik is just coming this way to surrender. He could have run into the woods going west, you know.”

Syd looked at Dar as if he had turned into an alien life-form. “So you think he’s bringing along this SSG 69 or whatever rifle to aid in his surrender? To give you as a victory gift, maybe?”

“No,” said Dar. “I think he wants to get in range so he can kill me.”

“Us,” said Syd.

Dar shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the Russian walking toward them. Yaponchik was about fourteen hundred yards away now. “Go on back to the rocks, please, Syd.”

“I said fuck that,” repeated Syd. “Shall I get the AK-47?”

“It’s useless at these ranges,” said Dar.

Syd shook her head. “If I knew how to adjust the sights on that fifty-caliber up there, I’d blow Yaponchik’s head off. He killed Tom Santana.”

“I know,” said Dar softly. He turned and continued down the slope to the field, pausing only when he realized that Syd was still coming with him.

“Please, Syd.”

“No, Dar.”

Dar sighed. “All right. Will you be my spotter?”

“What do I do?”

“Just what you did up on the rock. Stay about three paces behind me and to my left. Keep him in your glasses. Let me know where my shots are hitting.”

Syd nodded grimly and the two slid down the steep and pebbly slope to the beginning of the meadow. Dar lifted his old M40 and gauged distance through the Redfield reticles. His guess at Yaponchik’s height had been about five eleven, so that would put his current range at twelve hundred yards and closing.

He and Syd began walking through the high grass. The brown stalks slapped softly against their legs and left seeds on the cotton of their trousers. Dar reached a point about fifty yards from their boulder and stopped.

“We’ll let him come to us,” he said softly.

Syd was watching the Russian through her glasses. “That’s a nasty-looking weapon,” she said.

Dar nodded. “The Steyr Company developed it for the Austrian Army,” he said. “Synthetic polymer stock…It has a customized butt made adjustable with spacers.”

“I always wanted one of those,” said Syd.

Dar glanced at her, astounded at her grace under pressure. “I think he’s mounted a Kahles ZF 69 sight on it,” he said at last.

“Is that important?” asked Syd.

“Only because the ZF 69 sight is graduated for very accurate firing out to eight hundred meters,” said Dar. “So we might expect him to take his first shots about then.”

“What’s his range now?” asked Syd, looking through her binoculars again.

“About a thousand meters.” Dar raised his M40, slung it tight, and began clicking the elevation settings.

“He’s coming slow enough,” said Syd. “He’s sure as hell in no hurry.”

“It’s a nice day,” said Dar, seeing Yaponchik’s face clearly for the first time.

At that moment Yaponchik lifted his SSG 69 to port arms and then raised it to sight through the oversized scope. He was still walking.

“Turn sideways,” said Dar. He glanced behind him. “No, not to the left…I have to stand this way because I shoot right-eyed and right-handed, but you turn the other way, so your right side is to him.”

Syd did so, but said, “What the hell is this, some eighteenth-century duel? Is the idea that my ribs are going to stop the black-powder pistol ball?”

Dar had nothing to say to that. Yaponchik had stopped and was ranging them. Dar checked the reticles in his sight and figured the range at about one thousand yards.