Free A Bomb Built in Hell by Andrew Vachss Page B

figure out why these bullets work so good. Anyway, I got fifty rounds of those ‘freaks,’ just for this piece.”
    â€œI can make a three-inch group at seven hundred yards with the Zipper,” Wesley said, doubtfully.
    â€œThe man told me he could double that distance and still group the same with this piece. And he’s no marksman.”
    â€œLet me see it.”
    â€œOkay, kid. But remember, I only got fifty rounds.”
    â€œI’ll test-fire it with some over-the-counter stuff first.”
    F our hours later, Wesley came down to the garage.
    â€œIs it as accurate as the man said?” Pet asked him.
    â€œBetter. But it’s the loudest damn thing I ever heard.”
    â€œSo what? No point in silencing it anyway from the Island—the chumps on either shore’ll think it was a backfire. We hit a guy like that once, years ago, me and Carmine. I set the car up so’s it would backfire like a sonofabitch, right? So we’re driving down the street with the car backfiring, and the creep ducks behind his bodyguards … but then they get wise it’s only the car, and he starts laughing like a fool. He was still laughingwhen Carmine sent him a message, and the bodyguards couldn’t figure out what happened until we were around the corner.”
    â€œThe engineer was sure right about this piece,” Wesley said. “Any chance of getting some more slugs from him?”
    â€œNo. It was in the papers yesterday. Somebody must have wired his car. It blew up when he turned on the ignition.”
    W esley and Pet replaced the stock of the new rifle. With a new cheek-piece, hand-sanded to micro-tolerances, it fit Wesley’s face perfectly. He also had the latest nightscope: U.S. Army issue, and then only to jungle-sniper teams. Pet built a long black anodized-aluminum cone to hide the flash. Wesley mounted the piece on a tripod and sat comfortably behind it for a while. Then he disassembled the unit and climbed to the roof.
    It was shadowy black on the waterfront as Wesley sighted in. He picked up a man and a woman in the scope, lying on the grass just off the river. The range was almost a mile, and Wesley carefully dialed in until he could see the man clearly. The nightscope worked to perfection: the man looked like he was in a spotlight against a dark background. The crosshairs focused on the man’s upper chest, then on his face, and then on his left eye. Yes … there. With such a high-speed, low-density bullet, a chest shot wasn’t a sure kill.
    Wesley thought about the books he had read on triangulationand concluded that it would be possible for the cops to learn where the bullets had been fired from. Then he came to another, more significant conclusion:
So what?
    Pet was waiting in the garage.
    â€œI got a kid,” he told Wesley. “A good, stand-up kid. A
State
kid, you know? He’ll bring a launch alongside the FDR. I’ll be in the Caddy, pulled over like I got engine trouble. You can be into the launch in thirty seconds, and he’ll bring you back about a mile upriver from there. And I’ll be waiting.”
    â€œHe’ll see my face.”
    â€œYou trust me?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe won’t remember you.”
    â€œHim, too?”
    â€œNo. We’ll need him again—he’s one of us, I think. But I got something for him anyway, just in case.”
    â€œCan you find out which night the boss’ll be on the bridge? Can you find out where I can shoot from?”
    â€œI already got that much. But no time. That’s all there’s gonna be. Even
trying
to get more information would tip him.”
    â€œWhen do we start?”
    â€œFrom tomorrow night until Thursday; that’s as close as my guy knows. You ready?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou only get one shot.…”
    â€œI haven’t thought about that.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œTunnel vision’s better for