I, Sniper (Bob Lee Swagger Novels)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The explosive New York Times bestseller by Stephen Hunter that sends ex-Marine sniper Bob Lee Swagger into the thick of an FBI investigation and features some of the greatest gunfights ever to grace the page.
It takes a seasoned killer…
Four famed ‘60s radicals are gunned down at long range by a sniper. All the evidence—timeline, ballistics, forensics, motive, means, and opportunity—points to Marine war hero Carl Hitchcock. Even his suicide. The case is almost too perfect.
…to hunt one.
Recruited by the FBI to examine the data, retired Marine sharpshooter Bob Lee Swagger penetrates the new technology of the secretive sniper world to unravel a sophisticated conspiracy run by his most ruthless adversary yet—a marksman whose keen intellect and pinpoint accuracy rival his own. But when the enemy and his deadly henchmen mistake Bob for the hunted, it’s clear that some situations call for a good man with a gun…and the guts to use it.
journos there. And he was right: nobody he knew entered, and he spent the time sipping a nice midrange merlot while eating his steak salad and reading his own paper, the Post, USA Today, the LA Times, and the Boston Globe, to assure himself that nobody else had anything, that he was out front, that the scoop was his. Tomorrow they’d catch up, and he knew right now that in various newsrooms around town, the scramble was on. He paid, left the papers, ambled out and down the street toward his shop,
stubbornly against the incline, and in a few more minutes he halted. The promised land. The valley was vast and he saw in it the same features that had been represented pictorially on the geodesic survey map. It took him a second to orient himself, then he realized he was at the south edge, which meant that of the slopes before him, the right hid his ambushers, and the left would in time present Swagger for the killing. He was certain that at this moment he was under observation, and so he
infraction if you don’t—” Red put the phone to his ear. “Constable.” “Mr. Constable, you don’t know me. My name is Randall Jeffords. I’m an accountant in your New York office.” “Why the hell are y—” “Sir, I came in to catch up and the place was being torn apart by federal agents. I asked, and they wouldn’t say, but there were some cops with them, and one of them said—I know you won’t believe this—felony murder one. I just can’t believe it. Against you, sir. I’ve been trying for hours to get
abuse you’ve just seen.” “Anto?” “I am.” “Anto, seems like you’re taking the sport out of it,” someone said. “True, I am, but for sport I butt heads in Irish football and chase a chesty whore now and then, or curl up for a nice read with a book by Agatha Christie. For shooting infidels, by that I mean ‘non-Irish,’ I want no sport at all, just piles of dead Johnny Muhammads feeding flies and scorpions fast as possible. Gentlemen, shall we?” There was no point in “examining” the bandana; it
stock fully extended. He reached back into the bag and came out with three mags, each dense for the size because each was loaded with thirty-odd 9mm cartridges, and at the top of each mag, a single cartridge was imprisoned and displayed in the lips of the magazine. Making certain it was oriented correctly, Rat eased a magazine into the housing, gently lifted it toward its destination, and felt it lock in place. He turned the gun sideways in his hand and drew back the bolt, feeling the slide of