Diablo

by James Kent

  Despite this, he noted in his DOPE log where the cold rounds went too, because the first shot in anger might also be a cold round, lacking the luxury of taking sighting shots before the hot precision shots were fired, like you do on the range. It was just as important to know the consistency of the first two or three cold shots so that if required, he could compensate for it.

  Once he was satisfied and ready to start collecting the rest of his DOPE data, he would seriously steady his breathing and count his heart beats. Precision shooting at one thousand yards and beyond is not a trivial exercise and only the very best, highly trained snipers are capable of achieving tight groups at these distances. Some extreme shooters, both military and civilian, are capable of repeatable, precision shots at over three thousand five hundred yards, or two miles. “It’s all about trigger-finger discipline and muzzle management” his old instructor used to say. Precision shooters require many hours of practice with the best equipment and ammunition, as well as algorithms and range tables that take into account all the variables between the rifle’s muzzle and the target; variables like wind speed and direction (which can vary multiple times across the range), barometric pressure, temperature, humidity and even the rotation of the earth – how the earth’s rotation results in a slight shift of the ground below the bullet’s flight path so that the fixed target has “moved” slightly relative to the point at which the shot was fired. All of these factors must be fully understood and accounted for if the shooter wants his shots to hit the target inside the kill zone.

  Swann settled the reticle on the target again at one thousand yards distant. He breathed slowly, observing the heat shimmer in the field of view. Then, after three slow, gradual breaths, he breathed out finally, squeezed the trigger gently all the way to the back with continuous follow-through until the shot broke free, sending the Lapua Magnum round down range. It hit the target, again slightly low and left, but not as much as the previous cold rounds. His spotter called it, noted the position, and Swann adjusted the scope to compensate, low and left a few clicks in both directions. Then he re-aligned his eye to the scope, placing the center of the reticle again on the marker at the target. He waited patiently, boring a hole in the target, the center of the steel plate, with his eye. He slowed his breathing and waited some more, letting the last breath go slowly, and on his heart-beat he sent the shot down range. It hit the target within three inches of the center. “Hit!” shouted his spotter. “Dead on!” “Ding”, the familiar sound came back to them as the plate went swinging again. Swann worked the bolt to chamber another round and repeated the process five times until he was satisfied that he could place five consecutive shots within a five-inch circle at a thousand yards. With each shot and its recoil, the scope came back neatly on target which meant his fundamentals were spot on. Even though the one thousand-yard range was excellent for sighting in such a refined weapon as the L115 with very high precision, Swann knew he was good for distances well beyond this.

  He moved to the next range, again at a thousand yards, and sighted in the AX50 .50 caliber heavy rifle. The brute. The precision sledge hammer. A very unsubtle, yet focused weapon designed to get your attention, designed to give you a very bad day if you were down range on the unfriendly end. With its free-floating barrel and muzzle velocity of over 2,700 feet per second, the AX50 was capable of placing high accuracy rounds beyond two thousand yards. Swann stacked the magazine with its Hornady 750 grain A-Max .50 caliber rounds and snapped it into position. He checked the eye relief and positioning of the Nikon BLACK scope then he worked the bolt, chambering the first cold round like before.

  He settled in behind the stock and went through his breathing and control routine. After a few seconds pause, he said quietly to his spotter, “Sending it!”. A second later, he released the shot. The weapon barked and bucked, raising a cloud of dust. The sound reverberated around the nearby hills like a clap of thunder, then faded. The scope came back on target. Swann worked the bolt to chamber another huge .50 caliber round. He waited as his reticle in the scope settled back on the target. The heat shimmer made it look as though it were moving, hovering in mid-air like a mirage. He quietly squeezed the four-pound trigger and the rifle bucked again, sending the 750-grain bullet down range to strike the target neatly, just off center, slightly high and right by three or four inches. “Hit!” shouted his spotter, “Neat! Money shot!” he said. Close enough, thought Swann. After four more shots with the same result, grouping inside six to seven inches, he was satisfied that the two long-range weapons were accurately sighted in, trued and zeroed.

  Swann packed up his equipment, thanked and shook hands with his spotters and instructors and hit the road for Boulder. He took the road to Littlerock via Santa Clara, nearly an hour’s drive away, and stopped at a diner to refuel both his vehicle and himself. Then he hit the road again to Victorville and Barstow where he bought a cheap prepay cell phone so that he could make calls anonymously. From there it would be two and a half hours of driving, plus stops for food and coffee. He was behind schedule and realized he needed to send a message to Simms, letting him know he was on his way north. But really, Simms can wait. Let the bastard sweat. He would text him tomorrow after he got to Boulder and had settled in somewhere, until he regrouped, got his bearings and figured out his next plan of attack.

  5

  Wilshire Federal Building, Sawtelle, L.A.

  Lavinia Margot Pearman sat at her desk in a temporary, rented office on the ninth floor of the Federal building in Sawtelle, Los Angeles. It overlooked Wilshire Boulevard and the National Cemetery with its orderly forest of thousands of veteran’s war graves. She stared out the window at the sobering sight; it made her question the waste of so many young lives, lost fighting in so many wars not of their making. Then she turned back to her computer screen and finished typing her report. “No solution yet, but promising leads. Some rumors about a secret outfit called “Reaper”. I intend to find out what that is and who is behind it.”

  Pearman was on secondment from the Washington Division of Internal Affairs to investigate so-called “rogue” agents and officers all over the country who were allegedly breaking the law to solve cases. There were many reasons this happened; from cases that stalled, or whose outcomes would be detrimental to them and their careers, to outright vigilantism. Some corrupt cops had even been known to have dispatched criminals on the orders of rival gangs because they were secretly on their payroll; backhanders for making sure the occasional accident occurred, like a car crash on a lonely moon-lit road, an accidental drowning in a muddy ditch or in their own swimming pool. In the end, it’s no loss to anyone. They’re all criminals anyway, aren’t they? On the wrong side of the law and of the unlawful underworld. All payments for “services rendered” are tax-free of course. No questions asked. Cash under the table at a quiet greasy-spoon diner. A win-win. Except that it isn’t because it breaks the law! And Pearman is all about the letter of the law. Break the law, and you’re in her crosshairs. Next thing you know, you’re in the slammer yourself.

  The cases Pearman was currently working on involved a few bent cops who operated out of the L.A. offices, and others nearby. But one case in particular interested her more than any other. She had been ordered to track down a suspected renegade, so-called “lawman” who appeared to be operating completely outside the law, under his own rules. Owned by no one. Beholden to no one. Apparently, he worked on contract as a lone wolf, not only to the Bureau but also to other agencies from time to time. At least according to the original source – some highly-strung political whistleblower whose name she knew only indirectly, but was not at liberty to divulge. Maybe this renegade lawman was even part of the so-called “Reaper Group”, whatever the hell that is. So, in Pearman’s view, he was himself an outlaw. He was basically a hitman for hire. All of which meant that a few people in high places knew who he was. Someone did, because how else would he even get a contract? How does he advertise? Or doesn’t he bother? Perhaps the few trusted key p
layers already know who he is and how to get in touch with him. Which means these people must also have had close connections with him in the past. He must have a known reputation.

  But he was different to all the rest. That was the rumor at least, and there was plenty of anecdotal evidence to back it up, like stories she’d heard, newspaper articles and even police reports of cases suddenly closed after so many years of languishing in the backroom of open files. No mention of who had been responsible for having ended the careers of the perps in question. An old case was open for ages, and then it was closed. End of story. But by whom?

  Pearman was determined to get to the bottom of it and identify the culprit. And the people who knew him, who were feeding him his targets. She knew, at least, that he was indeed a “he”, that he had once been in the military and that he lived somewhere in the State of California. That’s all she knew for certain, thanks to the information from the source, and the few clues she could glean from various reports and articles she’d managed to track down. She had heard stories of his effectiveness, that he was a big guy, extremely well trained and that he lived alone. And that’s it. But she was also aware that stories tend to become exaggerated with the telling over time, each re-telling adding more embellishment, so she had no illusions as to how true it all was. Maybe some of it. Maybe none of it. Computer-profiling of such individuals suggested that they were usually anti-social; they rarely ventured out unless on a job; they tended to keep away from crowds and strangers, that they didn’t mix well and that they were socially awkward, quiet, moody and introspective. Loners, permanently single. And when has computer profiling ever been wrong? she asked herself. Good question. But she had to trust it, for now at least because she had little else to go on.

  And yet guys like that were unpredictable when confronted. They were dangerous to arrest and bring in. They didn’t like being thwarted or cornered, or having their wings clipped so there was high risk for any investigator who got too close. Still, Pearman was under orders from D.C. to track the guy down, whoever he was, and bring him to justice. She would deal with the risks as they presented themselves.

  The D.C. bosses were keen to get him because of specific political pressure, and because he operated all over the country and sometimes overseas. He wasn’t tied to a single jurisdiction which meant he was a freelancer and he travelled a lot. She was under orders to put an end to his career. But she had no real clue as to who he was specifically. His name. No photo existed that she could find. Not even a description of what he looked like other than vague references to his huge size and military background. His true identity seemed to be a closely guarded secret by a few senior agents in charge, and other select officers of the law. It also appeared that the senior agent in charge of the local offices in L.A., Sylvanus Spencer Simms, was either ignorant of the guy’s existence or he was protecting him for some reason, since he was utterly unhelpful. He didn’t seem to care either way. He obfuscated and beat about the bush when she turned up for their scheduled meeting on the issue. He spent the entire hour talking gibberish, something about how cops these days are too preoccupied with having a nice view from their office and how they all eat too much meat. He also said something about flowers, how he hated flowers in vases! Weird! Pearman thought. But that all seemed to fit as far as she was concerned, considering how spartan and cold Simms’s office was. He creeped her out like a ghoul patting a kitten, so she was glad to get the hell out of there. She thought getting anything useful out of Simms was like trying to squeeze water from a stone. A waste of time. Even so, she got suspicious that he was hiding something, that he knew who the guy was and that he may even be his handler. So, she decided to investigate him too.

  *

  Pearman was a determined and resourceful woman, used to getting her own way. Unused to being told what to do. She didn’t like failure and she didn’t like renegades, rogues and vigilantes who treated the law as nothing more than a suggestion.

  Pearman had been raised in a strict Presbyterian family in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She joined the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington DC, at the age of 25 after completing her law degree at Harvard near the top of her class. She moved over to the Department of Justice Internal Affairs Division three years later and earned a reputation for ruthless efficiency and tenacity in uncovering and prosecuting unlawful activities within the Bureau. She was a loner, kind of like the guys she was hunting. It worked better that way. No distractions. But she also got lonely and realized that there was more to life than working late in a sterile office tracking down rogue cops who lived ugly lives.

  She liked being single, preferred it in fact, but she found that every now and then she needed a “fix”. Eventually she would decide to settle down. Maybe. Or not. But then, you never know, if the right guy came along . . . Which is why, if she were honest about it, she sometimes went out feeling hopeful. Maybe it was a subconscious thing. That was when she met the big guy in the bar downtown, purely by chance. Or was it fate? She couldn’t decide. She’d only gone in for a drink and some timeout to think about the task ahead. Or did she? She wasn’t sure about that either. He was sitting at the bar alone, drinking a whiskey, obviously thinking about something deep. He seemed to be oblivious of her and everything else around him, except his whiskey. But she liked the look of him. He seemed to radiate a steel-like strength and confidence like a force you could feel even from behind. He was big. That was for sure. Wide across the shoulders, huge arms, powerful-looking hands and wrists. There was real power there. So, she decided to take the plunge and sit at the bar herself, one barstool away, and see what developed. She’d done it before, but not often. One-nighters. Or maybe two. The first thought that occurred to her as she sat on the barstool was, Jeez I hope he doesn’t have a squeaky little voice to compensate his impressive physique! She wasn’t disappointed. But she couldn’t quite describe it. A deep voice, with an edge to it. It had a commanding tone you didn’t want to argue with.

  He ignored her at first, like she wasn’t there, but then he turned to look at her, his dark eyes looking right through her like a searchlight. A very steady gaze, not the deer-in-headlights look that she was more used to from guys who felt intimidated by her good looks, but a penetrating and analytical stare, like a “Who the hell are you?” type look. It was like he didn’t care whether she was there or not. That also appealed to her. His apparent indifference. He was easy on the eye, despite his rough-sawn look and the scar under his left eye. He looked tough and rugged and weathered. Pure muscle. No fat. She liked that too.

  And then a fleeting and frightening thought occurred to her: What if he’s the guy I’m hunting?

  But he didn’t fit the profile. And besides, she thought, that would be too much of a coincidence. The very guy she’s looking for just happens to be sitting right there in front of her on the very night she decides to head into town for a drink? Yeah, sure. Hardly likely. Ridiculous. That would be a first! But maybe she was just in denial of the possibility. Maybe she just didn’t want it to be him! That thought worried her. It’s called “confirmation bias”. But then maybe she was also overthinking it, like she usually does when it comes to dating someone. She overthinks everything which complicates her plan of attack.

  Pearman put the thought out of her mind and went in for the kill. The big guy was surprisingly easy to pick up once she’d asked him what he was drinking. He put up no resistance at all. He said his name was Nick. He looked like a Nick. A strong name. She wasn’t sure if it was real, but it didn’t matter. She would understand if it turned out not to be. She told him hers, just her first name, but he seemed distracted by her . . . Typical bloody male! Yet she smiled at the thought and took it as a compliment.

  After some friendly banter over drinks, Pearman took up his offer of heading back to his place in Woodland Hills for the night. He seemed safe enough. And she had her gun in her handbag. Just in case. This’ll be interesting! She grabbed her handbag and followed him out.

  *
* *

  Pearman now sat at her desk thinking about that night with the big guy. She was starting to have doubts again, starting to wonder about him. Maybe she was wrong, maybe the computer profiling she had always relied on was also wrong. Maybe he was the guy! Jesus Christ! she thought. If he was, how would she explain the fact she’d met him at a bar, had a couple of drinks with him and then went back to his pad for the night? And that she had no idea who he was, despite all the signs being right there in front of her? Who would believe her? A career-ending move.

  But then she thought about her meeting with Simms. It didn’t go according to plan. He was evasive and creepy at the same time. There’s something wrong with him! she thought. But she was suspicious that he knew something because he seemed too keen to deflect the conversation as though he couldn’t believe even in the possibility that such a guy existed, let alone the idea that he was currently operating out of L.A. Which meant that he was either hopelessly naïve or that he was being evasive and disingenuous. Yet Pearman was no closer to finding the renegade than when she had arrived in L.A. four days ago, the big guy from the bar notwithstanding. She had nothing she could actually prove beyond any reasonable doubt. Just a bunch of suspicions.