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his mind while his heart contributed a steady twelve beats per breath. He knew his own clockwork well – between heartbeats, and within his natural respiratory pause, was a golden stillness, and inside those microseconds, the superhuman gift of William Tapp was to will the trigger to break with a power beyond nerve or muscle. To use the words of an awestruck witness at a gravel pit in Wyoming, he simply made the bullet go .
    He’s a demon, this William Tapp.
    His rifle was a Finnish design chambered for the internationally acclaimed .338 Lapua Magnum. Olive green composite stock. Black bolt and receiver, cold-forged. Sixty degrees of bolt rotation and a glassy smooth throw. Free-floating chrome barrel. Two-stage trigger, customized for length and vertical pitch. Ten-capacity box magazine brimming with his personal homemade ammunition, cigar-sized and gleaming like missiles in the sun. A bulbous scope towered over all of it; an oily black optic that could belong in a NASA observatory somewhere.
    His gear was carefully spaced around him. To his right, a tripod-mounted spotting scope, a handheld ballistic computer and weather meter, and a notepad with a clipped mechanical pencil. To his left, a laser rangefinder, two ribbed magazines loaded and neatly stacked, and six additional boxes of hand-loads stored in skeletal plastic bands. And behind him he kept a half-buried emergency box stashed with a backup optic, a sleek handgun chambered in .17HMR, and various other goodies. And his snacks and energy drinks, of course.
    At first, he didn’t think he’d hit the girl.
    Slut McGee wavered in his scope, rocking on her heels ever-so-slightly as if a sharp burst of wind had disturbed her skirt. She looked one way, then the other, in mute confusion as the others hushed their conversation and turned to face her. To her, the miniature sonic boom might have sounded like a hornet whizzing past and harmlessly plunking into the dirt twenty meters up the road.
    I missed.
    His heart squeezed. He sagged his head, deflated and let the air hiss through the two gaps in his front teeth. He couldn’t blame wind or a change of target velocity. It was a miss, plain as iron sights on a clear day, and an ugly, embarrassing one because she had been standing perfectly still. Most competition-legal x-rings are smaller than this dumb bitch. He should have been able to hit her blindfolded, with just a piece of gravel and a goddamn rubber band. Figures. It was the first easy (by his standards) shot he’d taken today, and he’d biffed it—
    Slut McGee toppled, and Tapp sighed with relief.
    She hit the ground and tucked into the fetal position. Now she lay in the precise center of the dirt road between the yellow Toyota and the red Acura, and he saw a tongue of darkness creeping out from under her. It was her blood turning the packed earth black. Judging by where she’d clamped her hands – Why do they always do that? – he tallied a low stomach hit, a little to the right. Devastating to the internals and circulatory system. One could call it a . . . gut-wrenching shot (ha!). Who says puns are the lowest form of humor?
    I got her?
    He’d got her.
    The others stared with gaping horror – soundless panic, numb steps backward, their hands clenched to fists and pressed to their mouths to hold back screams. The intricate mechanisms of the human body ripped inside out and splattered, quivering and dripping and drying up, all over the ground. The usual reactions Tapp counted on, giving him time to prep his next shot.
    Four targets. Four and a half, counting the Montana park ranger.
    Which one?
    He chose the brunette wife from the Toyota and quartered her in his crosshairs. She was standing by her husband with her hand hooked on his elbow, a few paces from the vehicle’s engine block, and he figured if he could hit her center-mass he might spray a big red sheet of her all over the Rav4’s hood and grill. That was always satisfying. Nothing is better than