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much. When was the last time you heard the Kingston Trio?”
    “That’s an order, Herb.”
    “I’m not leaving.”
    Goddammit. If Herb died his wife would kill me.
    “Fine. Hold up the other Croce CD, then stay hidden. We go after I fire my first round. Everyone get ready.”
    I hold the rifle tight against my armpit and rest my chin on the stock, sighting down the barrel. I test the trigger pull, apply enough pressure to barely move it. Then I wait, breathing slow and easy so it doesn’t throw off my aim.
    It doesn’t take long. The killer can’t resist showing off his marksman skills, and he blows away the second Croce CD.
    “Go!” I tell the room.
    Then I squeeze the trigger.

6:53 P.M.
     
MUNCHEL
    M UNCHEL GRUNTS in satisfaction after the CD shatters, and then he moves the scope ever so slightly to watch the split-tail. He’s ready for her to fire back. Hell, he
wants
her to fire back. That’s why he didn’t kill her when she went for the rifle, even though he had a bead on it. Confirmed kills are great, but real snipers must also contend with return fire. The cops in the street, they’re all too far away, their guns not powerful enough to reach him. There’s no threat or danger.
    He wants a little danger. And the ultimate danger is when you go up against another sniper. An anti-sniper.
    Munchel doesn’t expect her to come close to him. Her rifle is a toy compared to his, and she doesn’t even have a scope. But this will be a much better story to tell Swanson and Pessolano if the cops send a few rounds his way.
    “Show me what you got, baby,” Munchel says, baring his yellow teeth in a grin.
    When her first bullet connects with the concrete planter he’s resting his gun on, Munchel jerks like he’s had acid thrown in his face. He drops the TPG-1 and ducks down.
    How the hell did she make that shot?
    “Lucky,” he says aloud, his voice cracking.
    As the word leaves his lips, another shot blasts into the planter, tossing up stone chips, burrowing a hole into it.
    Munchel backs the hell away. He checks his clothing. Why isn’t the camouflage working? Is she using night vision?
    A bullet zips over his head, its wind practically parting his hair before burying itself into the building behind him. He hunkers down even lower, thinking he should be returning fire,
knowing
he should, but too scared to move.
    One more shot, and the planter shatters, large chunks falling to the ground, a puff of dirt forming a cloud that settles in his eyes and on his lips.
    Munchel holds his breath, waiting. His bladder feels like a water balloon being squeezed in a vise. Sweat pops out of his body in places he didn’t even know he had pores. He doesn’t dare move, convinced that she can see him.
    A full minute passes.
    He wonders if she’s out of bullets, or simply toying with him. Maybe she has the shot, has him all lined up, and is enjoying watching him squirm.
    Sirens, in the distance. Munchel knows that must be SWAT. He needs to break camp, get the hell out of here. His heart is thumping. His mouth is dry. His palms feel like he just soaked them in water. He’s more scared than he’s ever been in his life.
    But he’s also exhilarated.
    This is what combat is like,
he thinks.
    The feeling is intoxicating.
    Munchel knows the news cameras are rolling, knows that the split-tail can see him, knows that what he has in mind might be suicidal. But he decides to go for it anyway.
    No one expects a pinned down man to charge. So Munchel charges.
    The suitcase in one hand, the TPG- 1 in the other, he sprints across the sidewalk, across the street, daring the woman cop to shoot him. He knows to zigzag, to make himself a harder target. He maybe even yells a little, an animalistic war cry, the sound of a hero facing certain death.
    No bullets hit him. No one even shoots at him. Munchel pauses behind a car to catch his breath, marveling at his own bravery. It’s dark, and the streetlight he shot out earlier helps him hide in the