Cross the Line (Alex Cross #24)(32)

“How’d he know your name?” Sampson asked.

“I’m thinking he read our credentials through his scope,” I said, lowering my gun but not holstering it.

Condon pulled up about ten yards away. Late thirties and rawboned, he had silver-and-red hair and a matching beard. Both needed cutting.

“Azore,” he said. “Denni.”

Two German shepherds jumped down from the flatbed carrier behind the sniper. They stopped and stood there, panting, at Condon’s side.

“You mind telling us what the hell that was all about?” Sampson asked. “Shooting at us?”

Condon said, “Practicing my trade. You walked into a hot rifle range, my place of business, unannounced and forewarned. That’s what happened.”

I said, “You didn’t see us before you shot?”

He looked at me, blinked, said, “Hell no, I was in the zone. In the whole wide world, there was nothing but the I and the D and the trigger and me.”

“What’s the I and the D?”

He spelled it out. “T-i-d-e.”

“What was in that container?” I asked.

“Tannerite,” he said. “Exploding target material. Shot indicator.”

Sampson said, “You almost killed us with that stuff, which is illegal in Maryland, by the way.”

Ordinarily the mere presence of a pissed-off John Sampson was enough to shake the toughest of criminals. But Condon looked at ease.

“Not for me,” he said. “I have a federal permit through Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. And, like I said, I didn’t know you were there. If I’d wanted to kill you, Detectives, you’d already be dead, and I’d have a shovel-and-shut-up mission on my hands. Know what I mean?”

I did know what the sniper meant and absolutely believed him.





CHAPTER


35


CONDON CROSSED HIS arms and said, “So go ahead, ask your questions.”

“Somewhere we can sit down?” Sampson said. “Get out of this heat?”

Condon considered that, said, “Two weapons each? Primary and backup?”

I nodded.

“Azore,” Condon said. “Denni.”

The dogs circled us in easy lopes. Both hesitated, turned noses toward our ankles, then wagged their tails.

The sniper whistled and they went back to his side.

“Always like to know for sure,” Condon said, and he started up the Ranger. “One of you can sit up front. One in the back.”

“I’ll take the back,” I said, then I holstered my pistol and climbed up onto the little flatbed carrier beside several toolboxes that presumably held the tools of Condon’s trade.

Sampson had to duck his head to squeeze into the passenger seat.

Condon put the Ranger in gear, glanced at Sampson, and said, “Guys big as you don’t last long when the shit hits the fan.”

“Which is why I like to be holding the fan at all times,” Sampson growled.

Condon almost smiled.

The German shepherds ran along as we drove to the tree line, where another picket with orange flagging blocked the road. The sniper got out, drew it from the ground, and handed it to me.

A minute or two later, we pulled up by a black Ford F-150, a Harley-Davidson, and a John Deere farm tractor parked in front of a white ranch house in need of scraping and painting. A Grady-White fishing boat sat on a trailer near a red barn in need of shoring and paint.

The long field in front of Condon’s house was shoulder-high in corn. His grass needed mowing, and the air smelled of stale dog dung and urine.

Condon turned off the ATV, tugged the rifle from the black scabbard, and got out. He walked with a slight hitch in his stride to retrieve one of the toolboxes.

“Nice gun,” I said.

“Designed it myself,” he said, grabbing one of the toolboxes and showing me a .338 Lapua with a Timney trigger, a Lone Wolf custom stock, and a Swarovski 4 to 18 power scope.

No wonder he’d been able to read my credentials at ninety yards.

“How far can you shoot something like that?” Sampson asked.

“Wind’s calm and I’m right, a mile,” Condon said, and he went with a slight hitch in his gait up a cracked walkway to the front porch.

He came up with a heavy ring of keys and used them to open three dead bolts. Opening the door, he called, “Denni. Azore.”

The dogs streaked into the house. Two minutes later, they returned.

“Kennel up,” he said.

The dogs trotted over to cedar beds and lay down.

Condon gestured for us to follow him inside and flipped on the light in a small living area off a kitchen. The place reeked of marijuana. Beer cans and an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s crowded a coffee table between a couch with busted springs and a large TV on the wall. An image from Game of Thrones was frozen on the flat-screen.

The drapes were drawn. Condon crossed to an air-conditioning unit mounted on the wall and turned it on.

“Beer?” he asked.

“We’re on duty,” Sampson said.

“Suit yourself,” Condon said, and he went into the kitchen.

I looked around, saw Sampson had gone to a small table in the corner and was looking at several framed photographs, all of the same beautiful young woman in a variety of rugged outdoor settings. In the largest picture, an eight-by-ten, she was in Condon’s arms and he glowed like he owned the world.