The tires on the Mercedes Sprinter cargo van squealed as Westergaard booted the gas, reversing it up the parking garage’s ramp. He listened patiently to the panicked report from Patchell and Davenport of the startling events taking place down on Champa Street.
“Well, we’ll just have to deal with it, gentlemen,” he said calmly into his own hands-free microphone as the Mercedes roared out onto the open top level of the garage, still in Reverse.
“Wait and watch on the corner of 20th there. Yes, on the corner. Look sharp now. You’re closest. My bet is he’ll be coming out to you.”
This level of the parking garage was almost completely empty. Westergaard rocketed backwards toward the northeast corner, shrieked to a stop, put it in Park and ripped open the little low door in the cab behind him to the van’s rear.
In the back was a prone shooting platform that he had designed himself. It had a comfortable gym-mat-like padded surface and hydraulic lifts worked by a joystick controller to raise and tilt the platform into whatever position that was needed.
His Accuracy International AW, the most accurate sniper rifle on earth, was already seated on a bench rest at the back of the platform, aimed out the rear door.
Westergaard climbed in, slammed the cab door shut behind him, lay down onto the platform beside his gun, took the joystick and buzzed it up and up.
He took a few seconds lowering only the front of the platform just right so he could get a nice downward angle to either his left or right. As he did this, he put his eye off and on the Bender scope to get things as comfortable as possible.
He had a clear open firing lane north down Stout Street now. To his left was the side of the huge federal building, and past it, down Stout across the street, there was an open municipal parking lot. Davenport and Patchell had the north and west corners covered. If the targets came south or east, they were dead meat.
When Westergaard was done, he lifted the already loaded magazine beside the rifle and took out the top round of .338.
The Lapua Magnum round was cold against his fingertips and then cold against his lips as he kissed the copper jacket of it.
He clicked the .338 into the chamber, closed the bolt and snapped in the magazine.
Then Westergaard zipped down the van’s wide tinted rear window with a flick of the joystick and looked down the street beside the federal building, breathing calmly to center himself as he waited and watched.