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Instantaneously, Barkov’s bullet zipped past his ear like a supersonic bumblebee—the sensation made his whole body thrum like a bow string. That was close. Close enough to make his insides feel like jelly.

He pushed every thought and worry from his mind. It had come down to just him and Barkov. He let himself slip deeper into his shooter’s trance. His breathing became shallow, and his heart rate slowed. Shooting from the standing position was difficult, and normally his arms might tremble ever so slightly from the strain. Holding an eight-pound rifle steady enough to aim with any precision was harder than one might think. After a few minutes, your arms started to quiver no matter how strong you were. But now it was as if the cold had frozen him into place.

He kept the rifle steady and settled the crosshairs on Barkov. It was a long way off, but he had been lucky in the first two shots. He felt good about three out of three.

There was almost no wind, so Cole placed the crosshairs directly above Barkov’s head to account for the drop of the bullet.

Hitting the head was too much to hope for—instead, he was trying for a body shot.

Everything launched into the air eventually fell back to earth, after all—baseballs, footballs, even bullets. They all fell at the same rate, thanks to gravity, but the speed of the object determined how far it traveled before falling to earth. To compensate for the pull of gravity, a marksman aimed above his target when taking a shot. The farther the target was, the higher you aimed.

Given time, Cole could have walked his bullets in. He did not have that option. He had one shot.

He had almost forgotten that his finger was on the trigger. It nearly surprised him when the rifle fired.

There was a stab of flame, and the cool, still air actually rippled as the hot gases caused by the rapid burning of gunpowder geysered from the muzzle. Traveling at nearly 3,000 feet per second as it left the muzzle, the 152-grain bullet exited the barrel spinning like a drill bit. The still, clear air welcomed the bullet and wrapped itself around it, guiding the projectile like it was on rails. A full second later, the bullet completed its arc and punched through Barkov’s rib cage.

• • •

One rib attempted to deflect the more than two thousand foot pounds of energy and was snapped in half for its trouble, resulting in splinters of bone joining the bullet as it churned through Barkov’s liver. Barkov’s body cavity was massive, big as a steamer trunk tipped on its side, and the bullet lost its way and wandered downward, nicking his stomach here, tearing out chunks of bladder and prostate there, before exiting just above the hipbone opposite where it had entered. Having lost its momentum, the bullet tumbled to rest in a snow drift just a few feet away.

Barkov was such a big man that the energy of the bullet did not knock him down, although it would have knocked down most men. He felt no pain at first. Just an odd sensation as if his insides were being stirred with a large metal spoon. He looked down to see where the bullet had gone in, and then reached down to feel for the hole where it had come out.

He even looked behind him and saw the gouge in the snow that the spent bullet had made. Some detached part of his mind thought, “Ah, so that it where it went.”

His body was not so detached as his mind, however. The interior of his torso was now a raw stew of torn tissue, blood, bone, bile, and urine. Barkov’s knees buckled. He dropped his rifle. He went down.

• • •

Through the scope, Cole watched the Russian collapse.

• • •

The impact put Barkov down. He knew too well that a bullet was a small thing, and yet despite its small mass the slug was moving at supersonic speed that increased its energy exponentially.

How many times had he watched a bullet wreak havoc on someone else?

Now, his own turn had come.

He got to one elbow and coughed up some blood. There was little pain, but only a numbness. Barkov tried to get up, but somehow could not will himself off his hands and knees. His body simply would not obey.

He heard footsteps on the snow behind him, and looked up to see Dmitri trotting past him. The boy paused long enough to snatch the nagyka whip from where it was tucked into Barkov’s belt. The young fool was running straight for the American.

“Wait! You must help me!” Barkov shouted, but the youth did not stop. Barkov cursed him. “Traitor! Coward!”

Barkov thought that he had shouted the words, but then realized they had only been in his head. His lungs no longer had the volume for shouting.

He looked into the distance, but the American sniper had vanished, like a ghost.

Barkov’s body, strong as it was, drifted into shock. He thought he heard shooting far away, but couldn’t be sure. Mercifully, he lost consciousness.

• • •