Alone Read Free Page B

on the fourth story, where there appeared to be a balcony with an elaborate wrought-iron railing.
    He crossed the street, where he could get a better view. Space between the wrought-iron rails of the balcony appeared to be approximately three inches. No problem, given he trained monthly to nail a one-inch kill zone. Angle, however, became tricky; shooting straight through the three-inch gap would be a piece of cake. Trying to shoot up or shoot down more than thirty degrees, however . . .
    Bobby definitely had to get off the ground.
    Bobby eyed the four-story brownstone directly across from the Gagnons' and moments later was banging on the front door. While Lieutenant Jachrimo had told him uniforms had already evacuated area residents, Bobby wasn't surprised when a bright-eyed older man in a dark green robe immediately threw open the old wooden door; it was amazing how many people wouldn't leave their houses, even when surrounded by heavily armed men.
    “Hey,” the man said. “Are you a cop? Because I already told the other one I wasn't leaving.”
    “I need access to the top floor,” Bobby said.
    “Is that a rifle?”
    “Sir, this is official police business. I need access to the top floor.”
    “Right. Top floor's the master bedroom. Oooh.” The man's eyes went wide. “I get it. My balcony's across from the Gagnons'. You must be a police sniper. Ooooh, can I get you anything?”
    “Just the top floor, sir. Immediately.”
    The man was dying to please. George Harlow was a consultant, he informed Bobby as he hastily led the way up a sweeping central staircase. He was almost always on the road, pure dumb luck he'd been home tonight at all to let Bobby in. His brownstone was smaller, not quite as nice as the others, but he owned the whole damn thing. Drove his condominium neighbors nuts speculating what the single-family dwelling must be worth. Why, just last month, a single-family townhouse in Back Bay sold for nearly ten million dollars. Ten million dollars. Yep, George's lush of a father hadn't left him such a bad inheritance after all. Of course, the property taxes were killing him.
    Could George please touch the police rifle?
    Bobby said no.
    They arrived at the bedroom. The vast space bore hardly any furniture, let alone art on the walls. The man must travel a lot, because Bobby had seen hotel rooms with more personality. The front wall was all glass, however, with sliders right in the middle. Perfect.
    “Kill the lights,” he requested.
    Mr. Harlow nearly giggled as he complied.
    “Do you have a table I could use? Nothing fancy. And a chair.”
    Mr. Harlow had a card table. Bobby set it up while his host rounded up a metal folding chair. Bobby's breathing had accelerated. The climb up four flights? Or the adrenaline of a night that was about to officially begin?
    He had now been on-scene for sixteen minutes, not bad time, but not great. More guys had probably already arrived. The perimeter was getting fine-tuned. Soon another officer would show up to serve as spotter, providing two pairs of eyes. Then would come the crisis negotiation team, finally making contact.
    Bobby set up his Sig Sauer on the table. He cracked the sliders one inch, just enough for the tip of his rifle. Then he sat down in Mr. Harlow's metal chair, turned on the radio mounted in his flak vest, and started to talk into the microphone/receiver that was tucked inside his ear and worked off the vibrations of his jawbone.
    “This is Sniper One, reporting in.”
    “Go ahead, Sniper One,” Lieutenant Jachrimo answered back.
    Bobby put his eye to the scope, and finally met the Gagnons.

Chapter
3
    I SEE THE back of a white male subject, approximately six feet tall, short brown hair, dark blue shirt, standing approximately four feet inside a pair of French doors on the front side of the building, which I'm going to call side A of level four. The French doors are approximately forty inches across, opening outward, and are the third opening