He took up his rifle and glassed the fence under the canopy of trees, tracked it for a quarter mile. Zone 4 encompassed the expanse of pine forest that bordered the southern edge of town. “Just had a fence strike in zone four, over.” From the open platform, he had a panoramic view of the surrounding peaks, the canyon, the forest, and the town of Wayward Pines, which from four thousand feet above, was little more than a grid of intersecting streets, couched in a protected valley. His perch was atop a thirty-foot guard tower that had been built on the rocky pinnacle of a mountain, far above the timberline.

The sky steel blue and not a cloud in sight. 338 Lapua Magnum round to reach the target. It had taken a little over four seconds for the. The creature’s head disappeared in a pink mist. He thought he’d accounted for everything in calculating his aiming solution, but. Even Coriolis effect-the rotation of the earth.

It was a longer shot than he normally took, and so many variables in play, even under perfect conditions. Recovering from the recoil, he found his target in the sphere of magnification, still crouched on a flat-topped boulder on the floor of the canyon.

The British-made AWM bucked hard against his shoulder, the report dampened by the suppressor. He counted to three and squeezed the trigger. He’d almost certainly catch an ass-chewing from Pilcher. Every effort would be made to stop the creature from reaching town. But if it managed to scale the cliffs over the top of the razor wire, there’d be trouble. There was still a high-voltage security fence a half mile down the canyon. And there was a possibility that by the time he was ready to shoot, the creature would have passed out of his sight line. If he didn’t take the shot now, he’d have to range the target again. At a distance of one and a half miles, its head was no larger than a grain of sand.

With the reticle set at 25x zoom, the creature’s ghostly silhouette popped against the gray of the shattered rock. Conditions were ideal-clear visibility, mild temperature, no wind. The sniper reached up to the scope, adjusted the parallax, and settled back in behind the focus. Its progression down through the boulder field had been slow and careful, stopping occasionally to sniff the remains of others like it. It had come over the cirque at daybreak, pausing as the first radials of sunlight struck its translucent skin. Mustin had been watching the creature through the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight for the better part of an hour.

Wayward pines book 2