Weaver sank back into his seat and, in the habit of soldiers everywhere, was out in seconds.

Chen pulled her rented Toyota in the lot in front of St Holy Angels just before 5pm, parking just long enough to let her cell phone run through the frequencies Paravola had programmed in. In a couple of seconds, she picked up some video from inside the church. Fisher had been here. He was ready.

The ridge around the church concerned her. Too much ground and too many potential hides for Fisher. They’d have to wait until Fisher took the shot and be ready for a counter-sniper action. That could get ugly.

Capelli and Richter parked at one of the trailheads north of the church and walked through the woods to the top of the ridgeline that overlooked the parking lot. Sight lines through the woods varied but were not as bad as they could have been. A fair amount of low brush grew in clumps, but the trees were well established, oak and maple mostly. There wasn’t much secondary growth, and the ground evidently got some traffic. The state maintained an extensive network of marked trails through the area, and numerous other footpaths were worn into the ground. The late sun drilled down through the bare trees, dappling the ground. Richter and Capelli didn’t expect Fisher to be in the woods now, but they both wore silenced H&K MP5s on slings under their coats. They worked up the back of the ridge abreast, fifteen yards apart. Richter would move forward while Capelli provided cover, then Capelli would leapfrog him and work ahead.

At the crest of the ridge, they fanned out, Richter taking the ridge as it curved north and east, Capelli following the ridgeline south. Both took range readings to the church from likely spots along the ridge. The ranges from the top of the ridge varied from seven hundred and fifty to nine hundred and twenty meters. They marked on the map spots from which Fisher could not shoot. The northeastern end of the ridge provided no angle to the church’s main doors, and there was no door on that side. Just south of the center of the ridge, a copse of tall oaks blocked a clean shot at the front of the church. Capelli found an area toward the south end of the ridge that was heavily overgrown. It would be an excellent hide if the shooter didn’t have to move quickly. Of course, if you got in there and took fire, it would suck big time. A handful of other locations were bad – too steep, trees blocking sight lines, no cover. By the time Richter and Capelli got back to the trailhead for the drive back to Effingham, they’d eliminated almost half of the ridgeline and targeted fifteen likely hides.

Weaver, Ferguson, and Lawrence drove the Suburban up I-57 to the west end of Effingham, where most of the hotels clustered along Fayette Avenue. Chen had booked six rooms at the Days Inn.

Ferguson unfolded a large-scale US Geological Survey map on the round table in his room, and the men clustered around it.

“Got to figure he’s going to park north at one of the trailheads and walk in,” said Ferguson. “He comes from the south here, he’s either got to park at the church or in this mess of homes here. Either way, people are going to see him.”

“So we stake out the trailheads?” Lawrence asked.

Weaver shook his head. “Too many. You got four on this stretch right behind the ridge, which would leave you guys one-on-one. Get up around this curve here, there’s three more. If he’s willing to hump it a-ways, Christ, then he could park anywhere.”

Ferguson nodded. “I’d do the trailheads if I had, say, fifteen guys. No. We’re going to have to get him at the church.”

“Gonna be a bitch,” said Lawrence. “Got, what, almost a mile of ridgeline up there? All of it wooded?”

“We’ll see what Capelli and Richter find. You know some of it will be shit,” said Weaver.

Lawrence ran his finger along Hill Street up to the church and along the south verge of the church lot. “Can’t take him from the south. Nothing there,” he said. “Be looking right into the sun that time of day.”

“Too close to the houses anyway,” said Weaver.

“Church got a tower or anything? Best bet is to be on his line,” said Ferguson.

“Too risky,” said Weaver. “Odds are we aren’t going to get a read on his position until he takes his shot. So we got a body out front and cops on the way. Even if we suppress one of the Remingtons, somebody out front would hear it. Even if they don’t, we’d have somebody stuck up there until the cops got done. Maybe they decide to take a look. We gotta stay mobile.”

There was a knock at the door. Weaver pulled a slim automatic from the inside-the-pant rig beneath his right kidney and walked over to check the peephole. When he opened the door, Capelli and Richter walked in with three large pizza boxes and a bag full of water bottles. They pulled out their maps and gave them to Ferguson, who started transferring the markings onto his map.

“Gimme a minute here,” he said. He sat at the table and rested his chin on his hands while the rest of the crew ate.

After ten minutes, Ferguson sat up straight. “OK, I think we got a plan. We go in at him from behind. Capelli, Richter, tell me about this shit in here.” Ferguson pointed to the area at the back of the ridge that ran downhill toward the trailheads.

“Got a sort of funnel,” said Richter. “Pretty open for woods up the middle, not a lot of secondary growth. North and south here it gets shitty. Steep, more brush.” Richter ran his finger up the ridge on the map. “You can see where the trails coming in bunch up about halfway up here, then fan out again.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said Ferguson. “After the shot, he’s hauling ass. Ain’t gonna be like Chicago, locals are going to know the shot came from that ridge. Still, he’s not gonna bang through that shit on the sides like a fucking greenhorn. He’ll come down that funnel, not on one of the paths, but through that funnel. Figure on the verges, right or left.”

“So how do we set it up?” Weaver asked.

“Me and Lawrence take the top of the funnel, either side. We should hear the shot, so we’ll have a line on him. Capelli and Richter get in the shit on either side of the narrow part. Let him get halfway between our positions, then they start hosing. Maybe they get him. They don’t, either he heads back up the ridge into me and Lawrence and we take him out, or he’s gonna try to get cover between him and Capelli and Richter, which is gonna leave his ass open to us and we take him out anyway.”

Weaver looked at Lawrence. Lawrence nodded.

“Could get loud,” Weaver said.

“What do we got across that narrow part, Capelli? Looks like fifty, sixty yards?”

“Something like that,” Capelli said.

“Have Richter and Capelli stick with the H&Ks,” Ferguson said. “They’re suppressed, and they’re accurate for that distance. Lawrence or I take a shot, probably only be the one, and we’re shooting down the ridge and we’re a good couple hundred yards beneath the ridgeline anyway. Sound ain’t gonna be much back by the church. Oughta be OK.”

“What time do we insert?” Weaver asked.

“Chen said this confession shit at the church starts at 3.00, right?”

“Yeah,” said Weaver.

“Gotta figure Fisher is going to set up early. We want to make sure he’s in position before we move in. Be a real clusterfuck if we all walk in at the same time. Lawrence and Capelli can insert at this trailhead on the right, work up the right side. Richter and I will work in from the left. Say we start making our move around 1pm. We’re going to wanna go in real slow and real quiet.”

“How about extraction?” Weaver asked.

“Chen can take the Suburban, cruise the area starting around 2.00. We’re going to have to pack Fisher’s body out. We can call her in when we’re ready.”

Weaver looked at Capelli. “Good by you?”

“Hey, Fergie’s the man. He says it’s the plan, then it’s the plan.”