Page 99 of Nightfire

The calculations began, complex and intricate and so familiar he fell into the numbers because the numbers would save him. Because being fast wasn’t going to be enough.

The numbers were running in his head. Wind—none. Heat—87°. Humidity—low. Distance 1,782 meters. He calculated for bullet drop.

Harry was now fifty meters from the gunman and Chloe. Mike could see her face better now. She was terrified, but seemed more aware, her head was up, she was focused on Harry.

Forty meters.

The Russian looked behind him and moved Chloe slightly to the left so that she was exactly in the line of sight for Harry. Mike couldn’t get a shot at Nikitin without shooting Chloe. The Russians had gamed it.

Harry used to have a hand signal for Chloe when she was little. A special signal that meant – get out of Rod’s way. He’d reminded her of it just a few evenings ago. She’d completely forgotten.

Harry was going to use that signal and Chloe was going to have to understand it, even through a drug haze.

Fuck.

Thirty meters.

Mike was watching through his scope now, a Schmidt & Bender 5-25x56 PMII w/P4F Reticle, rated to 2,000 meters.

The Russian was saying something to Harry, who pulled the thumb drive out of his pocket and held it up.

Twenty meters.

Harry casually let his hand drop to his side.

Mike put a crate under the sun roof and stood on it, keeping his head below the roofline. He would have only fractions of a second to pop up.

The Boyd Loop. Observe. Orient. Decide.

Fifteen meters.

Harry’s hand curled to one side and back as if scooping sand at the beach.

Chloe dropped like a stone.

The Russian had been holding on to her and was pulled out of alignment by Chloe’s fall.

It was all Harry needed. His hand continued its movement and he pulled his Glock out and shot the Russian in the head, a neat round hole that turned into a pink mist haloing his head from the back.

Chloe was down. Mike had the shot.

Act.

In one smooth move, as if he’d rehearsed it a thousand times, Mike popped up, shouldered his rifle, sighted and squeezed the trigger, putting pounds of kinetic energy into Nikitin’s head.

It exploded.

Mike remembered Aaron’s injunction. No kill shots.

“Oops,” he said and threw the rifle down.

In a second he was running full tilt on the hard-packed sand, running as fast as he’d ever run in his life, running for his life, because there she was, picking herself up off the sand.

His life.

All that cool, calm control was gone, vanished. Poof! He was sweating and shaking, unable to take a deep breath because his lungs were on fire.

He ran straight to Chloe and managed to skid to a stop before crashing into her, the sand kicking up in front of his boots.