Alone Read Free Page A

fights and we've been called out before for domestic disputes. First time there's been mention of a gun, though, so that's a fresh kick in the pants. Is it her? Is it him? Hell if I know. Mostly, it just sucks for the kid. So that's where we are and that's what we got.”
    The lieutenant's spiel ground to a halt just in time. Phone company had arrived. Another one of Bobby's teammates as well.
    “Perfect,” the lieutenant declared. He stabbed one finger at the new trooper. “You, inner perimeter. And you,” the finger moved to Bobby. “Find a position. I want intel on that house. Where's the husband, where's the wife, where's the kid? And better yet, is anyone still alive? Because it's been over thirty minutes now, and we haven't heard a thing.”
     
    S TEPPING OUT OF the command center, Bobby picked up his pace. Now charged with a task, he had choices to make. He ran through them quickly.
    First off, proper gear. He went with city camo, a battle dress uniform blended with shades of gray. Solid black provided too much of a silhouette. Camo blends, on the other hand, gave the eye a sense of depth, allowing the wearer to sink into the surrounding environment.
    Over the top of his BDUs came soft body armor. The rest of his team would be wearing Kevlar with boron plates, but that kind of heavy body armor was too cumbersome for sniping. Bobby needed to be able to move quickly, while also maintaining an often uncomfortable pose for hours on end. For him, a flak vest and helmet would do.
    Next up, rifle, scope, and ammo. Bobby slung his Sig Sauer 3000 over his shoulder, then went with a Leupold 3-9X 50mm variable scope. His scope was already zeroed to one hundred yards, standard setup for a law enforcement sniper, versus military snipers, who zeroed their scopes to five hundred yards. The military guys, however, were running around in ghillie suits and crawling through swamps. Bobby's job rarely got that interesting.
    Briefly, Bobby debated night-vision goggles, but given that the area was lit up like the Fourth of July, he passed.
    That left ammo. He selected two: Federal Match Grade .308 Remington 168-grain slugs, and Federal Match Grade .308 Remington 165-grain bullets with bonded tips. The 168-grain slugs were standard issue; the 165-grain bullets were better for shooting through glass. Given that it was a cold night and the residence in question seemed buttoned up tight, he'd start with a bonded tip in the chamber. When you only got one shot, you had to play the odds.
    Next Bobby pared down his rucksack to three bottles of water, two PowerBars, a bean bag, his binoculars, and a range finder. He closed his trunk and turned immediately to the street.
    He had his gear, now he needed a position.
    Back Bay was an old, wealthy area of Boston. The tall, narrow brownstones boasted granite arches, elaborate wrought-iron balconies, and expansive bay windows. Broad shade trees, beautiful in the summer but now mere silhouettes, cast their skeletal canopies over BMWs, SAABs, and Mercedes, while in the glow of the police floodlights, gray veins of leafless ivy climbed up redbrick walls and caressed intricate window casings. It was a beautiful city block, grand, self-contained, slightly arrogant.
    Bobby could work his entire life and still not be able to afford to park on a street like this, let alone live here. Funny how some people could seemingly have every advantage in life and still be so royally fucked up.
    Distance would not be a problem, he determined. The brownstones sat shoulder to shoulder, with only fifty yards between one side of the street and the other. Angle was more of a consideration. Anything greater than forty-five degrees and the ballistics grew problematic. The brownstone in question appeared to be five stories, plus a daylight basement. The CO had commented, however, that the fifth floor had essentially become a vaulted ceiling for a fourth-story master bedroom.
    That would fit what Bobby saw now—lights blazing