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Mustin had been watching the creature through the Schht for the better part of an hour It had co as the first radials of sunlight struck its translucent skin Its progression down through the boulder field had been slow and careful, stopping occasionally to sniff the remains of others like it Others Mustin had killed

The sniper reached up to the scope, adjusted the parallax, and settled back in behind the focus Conditions were ideal—clear visibility, mild temperature, no wind With the reticle set at 25x zooray of the shattered rock At a distance of one and a half rain of sand

If he didn’t take the shot now, he’d have to range the target again And there was a possibility that by the time he was ready to shoot, the creature would have passed out of his sight line It wouldn’t be the end of the world There was still a high-voltage security fence a half ed to scale the cliffs over the top of the razor wire, there’d be trouble He’d have to radio in Call for a team Extra work Extra time Every effort would betown He’d al from Pilcher

Mustin drew in a long, deep breath

Lungs expanding

He let it out

Lungs deflating

Then empty

His diaphragm relaxed

He counted to three and squeezed the trigger

The British-ainst his shoulder, the report da fronification, still crouched on a flat-topped boulder on the floor of the canyon

Damn

He’d missed

It was a longer shot than he normally took, and so many variables in play, even under perfect conditions Barometric pressure Humidity Air density Barrel temperature Even Coriolis effect—the rotation of the earth He thought he’d accounted for everything in calculating his ai solution, but—

The creature’s head disappeared in a pink mist

He smiled

It had taken a little over four seconds for the 338 Lapua Magnuet

Helluva shot

Mustin sat up, struggled to his feet

Stretched his arms over his head

It was ht His perch was atop a thirty-foot guard tower that had been built on the rocky pinnacle of a mountain, far above the timberline From the open platfor peaks, the canyon, the forest, and the town of Wayward Pines, which frorid of intersecting streets, couched in a protected valley

His radio squeaked

He answered, “Mustin, over”

“Just had a fence strike in zone four, over”

“Stand by”

Zone 4 encompassed the expanse of pine forest that bordered the southern edge of town He took up his rifle and glassed the fence under the canopy of trees, tracked it for a quarteroff the animal’s scorched hide

“I have a visual,” he said “It’s just a deer, over”

“Copy that”

Mustin swung the rifle north into town

Houses appeared—colorful Victorians fronted with perfect squares of bright grass White picket fences He aimed down into the park where a woirl shot down the blinding glimmer of a slide

He glassed the schoolyard