Syd said, “Tell me that your rifle is a far superior piece of American engineering than his, Dar.”

“My rifle is a Vietnam-era piece of shit compared to his,” admitted Dar. “But I’m used to it.”

“OK,” said Syd in a tone that said all banter was over for the day. “Ready to spot you.”

Dar adjusted his eye to the sight again. He could see Yaponchik’s face at this range. It should not be possible, he knew, not from a thousand yards, but he could swear that he could see the Russian’s cold, blue eyes.

Yaponchik’s muzzle flashed.

There came a ripping sound from the grass five yards in front of Dar. A puff of dust rose. An instant later two loud cracks echoed across the wide field—the sonic boom of the bullet and then the second part of a double clap, the unsuppressed sound of the rifle firing. Dar watched as the older man smoothly operated the bolt action. Dar could actually see the spool magazine rotate as the next bullet was chambered. How many rounds did a Steyr SSG 69 spool magazine hold? Five or ten? Dar knew that he would find out. He watched as Yaponchik removed the spent cartridge by hand and carefully set it in his trouser pocket just below his black body armor.

Dar suddenly realized that he was not wearing his own vest. Fuck it, he thought, and sighted.

The Russian began walking forward again.

Dar waited. Shooting at a moving target smaller than a Chevy Suburban was rarely a good idea at such a range. When Yaponchik stopped and raised his rifle again, Dar stopped his breathing and squeezed the trigger.

“I didn’t see it hit,” said Syd from her place behind him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see the—”

“Did you see a puff of dust anywhere ahead of him?” asked Dar as he worked the bolt action, retrieved the cartridge, and set it in his blouse pocket.

“No.”

“Then I was high,” said Dar. Yaponchik’s muzzle flashed again.

Dar heard the whine of the slug passing his right ear before the double-crack of the shot itself. Dar had to admit that Yaponchik was ranging him fairly well. And the Russian did not require a head shot since Dar had no vest.

Dar banished the thought and concentrated on vision and calculation.

Yaponchik fired again. The bullet struck halfway between Dar and Syd, throwing pebbles and dust four feet in the air. Dar kept his stance, blinked away shimmers, and lowered his aim slightly. He had to be impressed by the professional fluidity with which Yaponchik worked the bolt action, pocketed the cartridge out of old habit, and resumed his perfect sniper stance without lifting his face from the ZF 69 sight.

Dar fired. The recoil made him lose Yaponchik for a second.

“Short—” cried Syd.

“How much?”

But Syd was already providing the information. “About a meter short. Right on line, though.”

Dar nodded and lifted his sights. He heard rather than saw the wind come up as the grass rustled and his torn blouse lifted slightly in the breeze. He adjusted his sight two clicks to the left.

Yaponchik had already squeezed the trigger. Only one bullet left in that magazine, thought Dar. I hope.

The slug threw up a geyser of dust a foot in front of Syd. She did not flinch. Luckily there had been no rock for the bullet to ricochet from.

Dar heard and felt the breeze strengthen slightly, saw the rippling mirage lines tilt a little farther to the left and then a little more, not quite horizontal but close to it. He estimated the wind at six and a half miles per hour, gave his elevation screw another half click left, reached his exhale spot on his breathing cycle, held his breath, and fired.

“Hit!” cried Syd. “I think…”

Dar did not have to think. He knew it had not been a clean head shot—he could still see Yaponchik’s face and cold blue eyes staring—but there had been a spray of red mist.

The instant seemed to drag on for long minutes, although only a second or two elapsed. Dar had time to action the cartridge out and chamber the next round, his eye never leaving the sight, before Yaponchik fell.

Unlike the movies in which humans are thrown violently backward for many yards from even a pistol shot, Dar had never seen a shooting victim do anything more dramatic than crumple. That was what Yaponchik did now, still holding his sniper rifle at port arms.

“Neck, I think,” said Syd, her voice thick.

“I saw it,” said Dar. “Right at the base of the throat. Just above the vest-line.”

They began walking toward the downed man, Syd removing her 9mm semiautomatic from its holster, when Dar suddenly stopped.

“What?” said Syd, sounding slightly alarmed.

“Nothing,” said Dar. He had slung his M40 over his shoulder. Out of curiosity, he extended his right hand. Then his left. There was no shaking whatsoever. “Nothing,” he said again, feeling a great hollowness rise within him and threaten to carry him away. “Nothing.”

They began walking again. Yaponchik’s crumpled form did not stir.

Syd and Dar were only thirty yards away and could actually see the red spray of arterial blood on the grass and the Russian’s head tilted back at an impossible angle when the skies above them filled with noise.

Both stopped and looked up.

Two of the helicopters had Marine markings and the third one had “FBI” lettered on the side. The FBI chopper landed between them and Yaponchik’s body.

Dar turned, ripped the Velcro off Syd’s vest, lifted the Kevlar over her head, and held her in his arms. All around them, the grasses swayed wildly from the madness of the rotors’ blast.

“I love you, Dar,” said Syd, her words lost in the engine roar, but perfectly understandable.

“Yes,” Dar said, and kissed her softly.

26

“Z is for Zoological”

It was ten days later, a Sunday morning, when Dar’s condo phone rang at 5:30 A.M.

“Shit,” muttered Dar sleepily.

“Ditto,” said Syd, propping herself up on one elbow.

“Excuse me,” said Dar, grunting slightly with pain as the stitches in his side stretched. He reached across Syd’s bare breasts to get the phone, and felt clumsy as he lay on his belly to answer it. He had never learned to sleep on his stomach, but the slowly healing wound just below his backside gave him little choice. Syd claimed that she did not mind when Dar forgot in the night, rolled over on his back or side, and awoke shouting and cursing.

The bullet in his side had been no problem. The emergency-room medic had given Dar a local anesthetic and dug the slug out in fifteen seconds. “Hardly worth coming inside for,” the medic had said. “Should have just used the drive-through.”

Oddly enough, it was his ear that still gave him the most problems. There was still some plastic surgery in the future for that.

Lying on his stomach, using the wrong ear, he answered the phone. “Dar Minor here.”

“Lawrence Stewart here,” came Larry’s happy voice.

“Dar, you’ve got to see this.”

“No, I don’t,” said Dar.

Trudy got on the line. It sounded like their cell phone. “Yes, you do, Dar. Trust us. This is going to be a tricky reconstruction job. Bring both your regular camera and your digital.”

Dar sighed. Syd pulled the blanket over her head and sighed even more heavily. “Where are you?” said Dar. If it was more than ten miles away, they could forget it.

“The San Diego Zoo,” said Lawrence, obviously pulling the phone back.

“The zoo?”

Syd lifted her face above the covers and silently mouthed a word. Zoo?

“The zoo,” said Lawrence. “Trust me, you’ll never forgive yourself if you miss this one.”

Dar sighed again.

“Hurry,” said Lawrence. “And say good morning to Syd and invite her along, too.” The adjuster broke the connection.

Dar looked at Syd. She shrugged—Dar always thought that her shoulders were cute—and said, “Why not? We’re awake now.”