Free Without Fail by Lee Child

six-by-four-inch color prints. He held up the first picture. It was a low-angle shot of Armstrong standing outside the Stock Exchange with the carved lintel inscription floating like a halo over his head.
    “Neagley’s,” Reacher said. “Good picture, I thought. Maybe we should sell it to a magazine, defray some of the twenty grand.”
    He stepped back to the bed and sat down and passed the photograph to Froelich. She took it and stared at it.
    “Point is I was four feet away,” Neagley said. “I could have gotten to him if I’d wanted to. A John Malkovich situation again, but what the hell.”
    Froelich nodded blankly. Reacher dealt the next print, like a playing card. It was a grainy telephoto picture clearly taken from a great distance, looking down from way above street level. It showed Armstrong outside the Stock Exchange, tiny in the center of the frame. There was a crude gunsight drawn around his head with a ballpoint pen.
    “This is the half,” Reacher said. “I was on the sixtieth floor of an office building three hundred yards away. Inside the police perimeter, but higher than they were checking.”
    “With a rifle?”
    He shook his head. “With a piece of wood the same size and shape as a rifle. And another camera, obviously. And a big lens. But I played it out for real. I wanted to see if it was possible. I figured people wouldn’t like to see a rifle-shaped package, so I got a big square box from a computer monitor and put the wood in diagonally, top corner to bottom corner. Then I just wheeled it into the elevator on a hand truck, pretended it was real heavy. I saw a few cops. I was wearing these clothes without the fake pin or the earpiece. I guess they thought I was a delivery driver or something. Friday after the closing bell, the district was getting quiet enough to be convenient. I found a window in an empty conference room. It wouldn’t open, so I guess I’d have had to cut out a circle of glass. But I could have taken a shot, just like I took the picture. And I’d have been Edward Fox. I could have gotten clean away.”
    Froelich nodded, reluctantly.
    “Why only a half?” she asked. “Looks like you had him fair and square.”
    “Not in Manhattan,” Reacher said. “I was about nine hundred feet away and six hundred feet up. That’s an eleven-hundred-foot shot, give or take. Not a problem for me ordinarily, but the wind currents and the thermals around those towers turn it into a lottery. They’re always changing, second to second. Swirling, up and down and side to side. They make it so you can’t guarantee a hit. That’s the good news, really. No competent rifleman would try a distance shot in Manhattan. Only an idiot would, and an idiot’s going to miss anyway.”
    Froelich nodded again, a little relieved.
    “OK,” she said.
    So she’s not worried about an idiot , Reacher thought. Must be a professional .
    “So,” he said. “Call it a total score of three, if you want, and forget the half. Don’t worry about New York at all. It was tenuous.”
    “But Bismarck wasn’t tenuous,” Neagley said. “We got there about midnight. Commercial flights, through Chicago.”
    “I called you from a mile away,” Reacher said. “About the musicians.”
    He dealt the next two photographs.
    “Infrared film,” he said. “In the dark.”
    The first picture showed the back of the Armstrong family house. The colors were washed out and distorted, because of the infrared photography. But it was a fairly close shot. Every detail was clearly visible. Doors, windows. Froelich could even see one of her agents, standing in the yard.
    “Where were you?” she asked.
    “On the neighbor’s property,” Reacher said. “Maybe fifty feet away. Simple night maneuver, infiltration in the dark. Standard infantry techniques, quiet and stealthy. Couple of dogs barked some, but we got around them. The state troopers in the cars didn’t see a thing.”
    Neagley pointed to the second picture. It