CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Morris peered through the scope of the rifle. There was still no movement.
He yawned, absently stroking the smooth butt stock of the modified HTR 2000. It was a truly beautiful machine, as stunning to him as the loveliest woman. Bolt-action, American-made, twenty-eight-inch barrel with 0.8 minute of arc and an effective firing range of 800 feet—not that he needed that kind of distance on this job, but he certainly wasn’t going to use a Barrett or an Armalite to shoot through a window.
He’d acquired the rifle from an ex-Israeli Special Forces member and modded it himself with a suppressor and tripod rig. He named it Betsy, after his first high school girlfriend, a leggy cheerleader who had taken his virginity in the bed of a Ford F-150.
He wondered how Betsy was doing th
