He got out of the car and opened the trunk and grasped the lapels of the jacket he had told Penney about. Took a deep breath and heaved. The corpse was heavy. Reacher wrestled it up out of the trunk and jacked it onto his shoulder and staggered with it to the barrier. Bent his knees and dropped it over the edge. The rocky cliff caught it and it spun and the arms and legs flailed limply. Then it hit the surf with a faint splash and was gone.
The .50 Solution
Most times I assess the client and then the target and only afterward do I set the price. It’s about common sense and variables. If the client is rich, I ask for more. If the target is tough, I ask for more. If there are major expenses involved, I ask for more. So if I’m working overseas on behalf of a billionaire against a guy in a remote hideout with a competent protection team on his side, I’m going to ask for maybe a hundred times what I would want from some local chick looking to solve her marital problems in a quick and messy manner. Variables, and common sense.
But this time the negotiation started differently.
The guy who came to see me was rich. That was clear. His wealth was pore-deep. Not just his clothes. Not just his car. This was a guy who had been rich forever. Maybe for generations. He was tall and grey and silvery and self-assured. He was a patrician. It was all right there in the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way he took charge.
First thing he talked about was the choice of weapon.
He said, “I hear you’ve used a Barrett Model Ninety on more than one occasion.”
I said, “You hear right.”
“You like that piece?”
“It’s a fine rifle.”
“So you’ll use it for me.”
“I choose the weapon,” I said.
“Based on what?”
“Need.”
“You’ll need it.”
I asked, “Why? Long range?”
“Maybe two hundred yards.”
“I don’t need a Barrett Ninety for two hundred yards.”
“It’s what I want.”
“Will the target be wearing body armor?”
“No.”
“Inside a vehicle?”
“Open air.”
“Then I’ll use a three-oh-eight. Or something European.”
“I want that fifty-caliber shell.”
“A three-oh-eight or a NATO round will get him just as dead from two hundred yards.”
“Maybe not.”
Looking at him I was pretty sure this was a guy who had never fired a .50 Barrett in his life. Or a .308 Remington. Or an M16, or an FN, or an H&K. Or any kind of a rifle. He had probably never fired anything at all, except maybe a BB gun as a kid and workers as a adult.
I said, “The Barrett is an awkward weapon. It’s four feet long and it doesn’t break down. It weighs twenty-two pounds. It’s got bipod legs, for Christ’s sake. It’s like an artillery piece. Hard to conceal. And it’s very loud. Maybe the loudest rifle in the history of the world.”
He said, “I like that fifty-caliber shell.”
“I’ll give you one,” I said. “You can plate it with gold and put it on a chain and wear it around your neck.”
“I want you to use it.”
Then I started thinking maybe this guy was some kind of a sadist. A caliber of .50 is a decimal fraction, just another way of saying half an inch. A lead bullet a half inch across is a big thing. It weighs about two ounces, and any kind of a decent load fires it close to two thousand miles an hour. It could catch a supersonic jet fighter and bring it down. Against a person two hundred yards away, it’s going to cut him in two. Like making the guy swallow a bomb, and then setting it off.
I said, “You want a spectacle, I could do it close with a knife. You know, if you want to send a message.”
He said, “That’s not the issue. This is not about a message. This is about the result.”
“Can’t be,” I said. “From two hundred yards I can get a result with anything. Something short with a folding stock, I can walk away afterward with it under my coat. Or I could throw a rock.”
“I want you to use the Barrett.”
“Expensive,” I said. “I’d have to leave it behind. Which means paying through the nose to make it untraceable. It’ll cost more than a foreign car for the ordnance alone. Before we even talk about my fee.”
“Okay,” he said, no hesitation.
I said, “It’s ridiculous.”
He said nothing. I thought: Two hundred yards, no body armor, in the open air. Makes no sense. So I asked.
I said, “Who’s the target?”
He said, “A horse.”
I was quiet for a long moment. “What kind of a horse?”
“A thoroughbred racehorse.”
I asked, “You own racehorses?”
He said, “Dozens of them.”
“Good ones?”
“Some of the very best.”
“So the target is what, a rival?”
“A thorn in my side.”
After that, it made a lot more sense. The guy said, “I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought about it very carefully. It’s got to look accidental. We can’t just shoot the horse in the head. That’s too obvious. It’s got to look like the real target was the owner, but your aim was off and the horse is collateral damage. So the shot can’t look placed. It’s got to look random. Neck, shoulder, whatever. But I need death or permanent disability.”
I said, “Which explains your preference for the Barrett.”
He nodded. I nodded back. A thoroughbred racehorse weighs about half a ton. A .308 or a NATO round fired randomly into its center mass might not do the job. Not in terms of death or permanent disability. But a big .50 shell almost certainly would. Even if you weigh half a ton, it’s pretty hard to struggle along with a hole the size of a garbage can blown through any part of you.
I asked, “Who’s the owner? Is he a plausible target in himself?”
The guy told me who the owner was, and we agreed he was a plausible target. Rumors, shady connections.
Then I said, “What about you? Are you two enemies, personally?”
“You mean, will I be suspected of ordering the hit that misses?”
“Exactly.”
“Not a chance,” my guy said. “We don’t know each other.”
“Except as rival owners.”
“There are hundreds of rival owners.”
“Is a horse of yours going to win if this guy’s doesn’t?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“So they’ll look at you.”
“Not if it looks like the man was the target, instead of the horse.”
I asked, “When?”
He told me anytime within the next four days.
I asked, “Where?”
He told me the horse was in a facility some ways south. Horse country, obviously, grand fields, lush grass, white fences, rolling hills. He told me about long routes through the countryside, called gallops, where the horses worked out just after dawn. He told me about the silence and the early mists. He told me how in the week before a big race the owner would be there every morning to assess his horse’s form, to revel in its power and speed and grace and appetite. He told me about the stands of trees that were everywhere and would provide excellent cover.
Then he stopped talking. I felt a little foolish, but I asked him anyway: “Do you have a photograph? Of the target?”
He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. Gave it to me. In it was a glossy color picture of a horse. It looked posed, like a promotional item. Like an actor or an actress has headshots made, for publicity. This particular horse was a magnificent animal. Tall, shiny, muscular, almost jet-black, with a white blaze on its face. Quite beautiful.
“Okay,” I said.
Then my guy asked me his own question.