Read Online Savant by Rex Miller - Free Book Online Page A

tracker, stay close enough to take a shot should the order ever be issued, and be pleased to "blow him up real good," but until that time he was a big, fat golden goose. Also there was a bonding, albeit one-way, that had gone on over the years. In an odd, ironic way it was almost as if Shooter viewed Chaingang as an old pal.
    Sure, he thought, examining his reflection in the mirror, Bunkowski was a repulsive slob of a psychopathic killer but…since when was killing a crime? He broke himself up, laughing inside his mind, locking the door and slamming it behind him. He was heading for the rare bookshop, doing what he always did when he was bored—looking for ways to spend money.

    "Hi." The girl seated behind the bookstore counter smiled up at the face of the handsome guy who'd just walked in. What a hunk, she thought, suddenly feeling very hot. She'd been reading a romance and it was as if the guy in the book had come to life, blowing in off the scorching streets, ready to sweep her off her feet—the only difference being that the one in the novel had dark hair. She immediately scoped in on his ring fingers, and brightened at the absence of jewelry. "Anything special?"
    "Just looking," he said. "I have lots of interests."
    "Make yourself at home." I'll bet you do, she thought. "Feel free to browse." She put a little laugh into her voice.
    "Thanks." He moved past her. Athletic-looking guy, maybe thirty-four, thirty-five. Unmarried. Probably not gay but you couldn't always tell. Really cute. She stood up and checked her image in the mirror, busying herself with a stack of books behind the counter. Touched her hair and adjusted the blouse she was wearing, a scoop-necked, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse which she wore demurely.
    He zeroed in on familiar titles. Common stuff like Sniping on the Rhine and A Marksman's War Diaries . Immediately, he found a title he'd been looking for: Sniper's Journal: Bound Volumes XI-XIX . He'd heard of these but had never seen them. They were published by a small-press zine that had reproduced sections of lost material. He opened the leather-bound collection of magazines and thumbed through it. Most of it was stuff he'd seen or owned in the original, but he saw an article entitled "An Authentic Account of Sharpshooting in Mexico." Damn!
    "How much is this one?" he asked the brunette girl with the nice chest.
    She quoted him a price that he thought was way out of line and he let it show in his eyes.
    "Wow!" he said, keeping his tone friendly. "That's pretty high—I'll have to think on that one."
    "Sure," she said. He went back to the bookshelf he'd been examining, and she watched him carefully put the volume back where he'd found it, "I'm sorry about that. I don't own the shop or I'd make you a better price."
    "Oh? This isn't your place then?" he asked conversationally.
    "No. I manage it for the owner."
    "I was in here once before—I don't think I saw you. I would have remembered," he ad-libbed. "What's your name?" He didn't care but he could never stop himself. He could smell it on them when they wanted him and it was always worth trying again.
    "Melissa."
    "That's a nice name,"
    "Thanks."
    "Mine's Bobby."
    "Hi, Bobby," she said, thinking how inane she must be sounding. "I don't remember seeing you in here before either."
    He bad tuned out on her. In between McBride's A Rifleman Went to War (1935) and McMullen's W.W.I Sniper (1918) was a book he never expected to see.
    McLeod, W. D. Edward, Queen's Log . Jesus! Every collector wanted this one. Queen's Log : A Personal Narrative of Marksmanship Under Siege by the Zulu Nation , the full title. Five hand-drawn, tipped-in maps of the Roarke's Drift battlefield. His skin felt ice cold in the summer air conditioning.
    "How much for this one?" he asked her.
    "Um. That's uh—" She double-checked her typed inventory list to be sure. "Twelve-fifty." He didn't react, so to make certain he understood she said in a soft voice, "One thousand, two hundred