Alone Read Online Free

across. Opening one of level four is a double-hung window, approximately thirty inches across and seven feet tall. Opening two is another double-hung window, approximately twenty-five inches across, seven feet tall. Opening four, side A, level four, is a final double-hung window, twenty-five inches across, seven feet tall.”
    Bobby reported in the details of the Gagnons' fourth floor while keeping his eye on the lone male subject. The man didn't move. Watching someone, looking for something? Both of the man's hands were in front of him, so Bobby couldn't tell if he was armed.
    Using binoculars now, Bobby scanned for a woman and child, but came up empty.
    The room appeared to be a bedroom with a king-sized bed planted squarely in the middle of the space, lined up parallel to the French doors. The bed was one of those elaborate, wrought-iron affairs with gauzy white fabric draped every which way. Behind the bed he could see a row of white-painted folding doors. Probably a closet. Then, over to the left, he could make out an alcove where there appeared to be another doorway. Master bath? Sitting area?
    The room was large, with many hiding spaces. That made life interesting for everyone.
    Bobby tried to adjust his binoculars to penetrate the shadows of the left-hand alcove, without any luck. Briefly, he scanned the other lit windows of the brownstone, but didn't encounter any signs of other occupants.
    So where were the wife and child? Hidden in the drapes of fabric swathing the bed? Tucked inside a closet? Already dead on the floor?
    Bobby could feel his stomach starting to tighten with tension. He forced himself to slowly breathe in, then out. Focus. Be part of the moment, but outside of the moment. Detach.
    Do you know the difference between a shooter and a sniper? A shooter has a pulse. A sniper doesn't.
    Bobby prepared for the long haul: He fine-tuned his rifle stand, working the stock of his rifle into the bean bag until it achieved perfect height. He moved the chair until he could lean into the table, wedging the butt of his rifle squarely into the curve of his shoulder. When the rifle felt good, tight but comfortable against his body, like another appendage, a third arm, he leaned forward and found the spot weld—the place where his cheek met the stock and his eye met the scope in such perfect alignment that the entire world suddenly seemed to fill the crosshairs. He could see anything, he could shoot anything.
    He studied once again the lone male subject, now peering over the edge of the wrought-iron bed.
    Bobby chambered a bonded-tip slug and slowly placed the crosshairs of his scope on the back of the man's head. His breathing was shallow, his pulse steady. He lined up his shot without a single tremor in his hand.
    Police snipers practiced one thing only—to immediately incapacitate a subject who may have his finger on a trigger. Basically, month in, month out, Bobby trained to sever a man's brain stem.
    He was satisfied with his position. Angle was easy, distance manageable. He would incur minor deflection from the glass of the French doors, but nothing that couldn't be handled by the 165-grain ammo. With the target stationary, he did not need to worry about inducing lead, and at a distance this short, weather and wind were not relevant factors.
    He pulled away from the scope, careful not to disturb the rifle, and with his right hand made notes in his logbook. He detailed his ammo, his scope setting, and his setup. Then he picked up his binoculars, which provided a wider field of view, and again, careful not to disturb his rifle, continued monitoring the scene.
    The man had moved slightly toward the foot of the bed. Bobby had a sense of growing tension, a force building to a crescendo. He couldn't place why, but then he got it.
    The way the man was standing, his shoulders squared off, his elbows jutting out, his feet slightly apart. It was a dominating pose, a man puffing himself up to appear even bigger and