Puerto Vallarta Squeeze by Robert James Waller Read Free Book Online Page B

retired, were still out there someplace, lying in wait until called upon by whatever or whoever required their services. And McGrane knew their credo, their simple and overriding criterion for success: one shot, one kill. In Vietnam, the average number of rounds expended per kill by ordinary soldiers was in the range of two hundred thousand to four hundred thousand. The snipers had averaged 1.3 per kill. At three for two, Price had fallen below the standard in Puerto Vallarta.
    In his associations with the shadowmen, Walter McGrane had always been surprised at how ordinary they seemed, no spectacular failings that one might notice right off. But he’d read the psychological evaluations: “The subjects all possess great courage, a high tolerance for discomfort and for being alone for extended periods of time. However, they share a common trait of being unable to form lasting emotional relationships with other people. Though they perceive reality much more directly, quickly, and accurately than most, they are limited in their capacities to respond to it emotionally For example, the exhaustive studies by Ingram and Marks have disclosed a remarkable lack of hate directed at the enemy. On the contrary, the so-called shadowmen seem to have only respect for the enemy and no thought of killing for revenge. According to Ingram and Marks, that latter characteristic is partly a tactic for completing the mission, partly a matter of survival. Maintaining an emotional distance from the quarry focuses concentration and prevents the man from making foolish mistakes based on personal reasons, which would render him both ineffective and vulnerable.”
    Walter McGrane looked out the window at black night roaring by. “Personal reasons”… Therein lay the fault and the flaw of what had once been a perfect killing machine. Clayton Price had made that mistake, reducing his emotional distance from a target. Had taken that distance down to zero, in fact, and got too close, even though he’d been warned years ago to forget his one personal vendetta.
    Click, and click again—the sniper rifle. Walter McGrane looked at the man called Weatherford and the other muscled windbreaker beside Weatherford. They were the new and improved versions of Clayton Price, routinely produced by special operations units in various branches of the military. Better trained, disciplined, more reliable, it was said, unlike the shadowmen, who were viewed by some as too individualistic, too eccentric, too likely to just take off and do things their own way. “Cowboys,” they were sometimes called, the word accompanied always by a derisive shake of the head. Still, others in the COU, Walter McGrane included, preferred the old way of working, using the shadowmen who left no paper trail of temporary assignments from the military, a set of specialized arrows that could be drawn from a quiverful of options when the time arose. The few who were left could be called on when the times got tough and the work got extremely dirty, “wet” in agency parlance, in Africa or the Middle East or Guatemala… or Mexico. True, they weren’t as disciplined as their newer versions. And, true, they tended to be eccentric. But they had their own strengths. Individualism and eccentricity always seemed to be the other side of the creative mind.
    The Lear’s engines shifted in pitch, and the co-pilot announced over the intercom they were beginning their descent into San Antonio for refueling. Weatherford looked over at Walter McGrane and grinned. “Just who is it we’re after, this time? All we were told was to gather up our gear and get over to Andrews.”
    “Man named Clayton Price.”
    “Don’t believe I’ve heard of him. That never matters, though, does it?”
    “It might this time,” said Walter McGrane.
    “Why’s that?”
    “He’s one of us. Going up against Clayton Price is like shooting pool with Pool itself.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “It means after you finish