Crosshairs : A Lee Henry Oswald Mystery

by Hunsicker, Harry

• ISBN13: 9780312348519
• ISBN10: 0312348517
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2007-08-07
• Publisher: Minotaur Books

Summary

"Crosshairsdelivers the goods: Layered, intense, and rich with deadly characters. Hunsicker is an emerging star." --Robert Crais,New YorkTimesbestselling author Hard-nosed Dallas detective LeeHenryOswald is back'¦ and he's better than ever. All he wants is to be left alone, a normal existence away from the assorted creeps and lowlifes inherent to his former profession as a private investigator. Unfortunately, peace and solitude are hard to find for Lee Oswald, a battle-hardened veteran of the first Gulf War, now weary after a decade as the fix-it man of last resort on the back streets of Dallas. But when internationally-renowned medical researcher Anita Nazari begs him to help find the person threatening her daughter's life, Oswald reluctantly returns to the shadowy world he's tried so hard to leave behind. Once there, he finds himself engaged in a high stakes battle against a man known only as the Professor, a former intelligence operative intent on destroying the results of the doctor's latest research, a seemingly innocuous discovery about the mystery illness dubbed the Gulf War Syndrome. The retired agent leads Oswald on a deadly search for the one man who can identify him and thus unravel a conspiracy of shady former government officials with an unhealthy interest in Dr. Nazari and her work. When Oswald locates the missing witness and learns the startling information the man possesses, Oswald places his allegiance with the truth, as he fights back against an enemy more insidious and deadly than he's ever faced. Gritty, tough, and smart, Hunsicker's tightly-wrapped thriller will leave you breathless long after the final page.

Author Biography

Harry Hunsicker lives in Dallas, the fourth generation of his family to call the city home. His debut book, Still River, was nominated for a Shamus Award for Best First Novel. This is his third novel. He can be reached on the Web at www.harryhunsicker.com.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

 

The man in the sunglasses couldn't decide whether to kill or only maim. The many options available left a pleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach, not unlike the initial stages of sexual arousal.

 

He smiled and slid a bullet into the chamber of the sniper rifle, the brass cartridge clinking when it hit the hardened steel. The forearm of the customized Remington 700 rested on a sandbag, which in turn sat on a makeshift table assembled from pieces of scrap lumber he'd found downstairs. The table was set a few feet back from a square opening where a window would eventually be placed in the unfinished second-story bedroom.

 

The man shifted his rifle to the left, toward a large stucco residence across the street and down three lots. Like most houses on this block, it had been built in the past year, a gargantuan Mediterranean design on a too small, featureless lot, ostentatious and pathetic at the same time, jutting up from the flat Texas prairie.

 

He pushed the sunglasses up onto his forehead and squinted into the eyepiece of the Leopold scope. The details of the suburban yard sprang to life: the deep green of the chemically treated grass; the black mulch in the beds lining the front of the house; the yellow and red and blue of the flowers bursting from the plastic garden-center trays resting haphazardly on the lawn, waiting to be planted.

 

He eased his sunglasses back down and from a black duffel bag at his feet pulled out a handheld radio scanner. The device had been programmed with the frequencies for police and city services for Plano, Texas, the location of the house and this street. His employer was not without influence in certain government agencies and had made sure the frequencies were accurate. He turned on the scanner, set the volume to low, and placed a wireless earpiece in one ear.

 

Next, he removed a black plastic device about the size of a deck of cards. He extended a stubby antenna and switched on the power, making sure the LED indicator was lit.

 

The electronic instrument operated an extremely small and carefully placed explosive charge, designed to succeed if for some reason he chose not to use the rifle.

 

He ignored the smell of raw lumber and fresh plywood tickling his throat. He didn't know how long the wait would be, so he removed a small bag of organic cashews and ate a handful, keeping his attention focused on the house.

 

Fifteen minutes later, a figure appeared in the front yard.

 

The man removed his shades and peered through the scope. The optics brought the image into plain view: a tall, thin woman, olive-skinned, attractive, in her late thirties. She wore a pair of dirty khaki shorts and a faded, oversized red sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off.

 

The owner of the house.

 

The man nestled the butt of the Remington against his shoulder and placed his index finger on the trigger.

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Dr. Anita Nazari wiped the perspiration from her face with the bottom of her red sweatshirt. She tried not to think about the e-mail and its implications, telling herself she was sweating from the heat of a Texas springtime, too intense after the past three years in Denver.

 

She grabbed a tray of petunias and began to work, placing each tiny container exactly an equal distance from its siblings, forming two perfectly parallel rows in the bed in front of her new house. The symmetry reminded her of test tubes in a rack.

 

Ordered and precise. Safe.

 

Anita picked up Container One, Row One and—with more force than intended—plunged the trowel into the moist earth, making a deep wedge-shaped hole. She squeezed the container until the roots slipped free from the sides, dropped the plant into the hole, and patted the dirt around the tiny stem. With a steady rhythm, she planted five more flowers and then stopped to wipe the sweat out of her eyes again.

 

Her heart was racing, her face slick and beaded. She could no longer pretend it was from the exertion. She had hoped the mindless activity would take her mind off the e-mail, but it hadn't.

 

She jumped at the sound of a throaty exhaust rumbling down the street.

 

Anita turned as the yellow Porsche Boxster belonging to Tom Maguire, her boyfriend of the past two months, stopped in front of her mailbox.

 

He got out, waved once, and approached.

 

Anita sat back on the grass and hugged herself.

 

“How's it goin—” Tom stopped, the smile slowly disappearing from his face. “What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing.” Anita's voice was barely a whisper.

 

“Mira okay?” Tom looked toward the house. Mira was Anita's ten-year-old daughter.

 

“Yes.” Anita nodded. “She's inside, doing her homework.”

 

As if on cue, the front door opened and a gangly girl in jeans and a Britney Spears T-shirt stepped outside.

 

“Hey, Tom.” The girl grinned, teeth too big for her head.

 

Tom smiled back. “Hey, kiddo.”

 

“Your homework.” Anita stood and tossed the trowel into the dirt as if it were a dagger. “Are you finished yet?”

 

“Almost.” Her daughter sat down on the steps and yawned. “Long division sucks.”

 

“Please go back inside and finish.” Anita looked up and down the street. No cars that didn't belong were visible. “And don't use that kind of language.”

 

“Wait till you get to algebra.” Tom winked. “That really sucks.”

 

They both laughed. Anita bit her lip and closed her eyes, trying

 

to control the feeling of anger masking the helplessness rising like a bubble from her stomach.

 

“Mira.” Anita's voice was tight and low. “Go inside. And finish your homework.”

 

“C'mon, let her stay out here for a while,” Tom said. “It's a gorgeous day.”

 

Anita turned to her boyfriend, a happy-go-lucky former college football player who sometimes acted like he might have played one too many games without a helmet. She wondered if he had ever known true fear, the kind that makes your bowels watery and forces you to question the existence of anything but the evil humans do to each other. She wondered what it would be like to not know fear, to simply enjoy life and a sunny afternoon.

 

She tried to remember what things were like before the first e-mail.

 

She couldn't.

 

Copyright © 2007 by Harry Hunsicker. All rights reserved.

 

 

Excerpts

CHAPTER ONE The man in the sunglasses couldn’t decide whether to kill or only maim. The many options available left a pleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach, not unlike the initial stages of sexual arousal. He smiled and slid a bullet into the chamber of the sniper rifle, the brass cartridge clinking when it hit the hardened steel. The forearm of the customized Remington 700 rested on a sandbag, which in turn sat on a makeshift table assembled from pieces of scrap lumber he’d found downstairs. The table was set a few feet back from a square opening where a window would eventually be placed in the unfinished second-story bedroom. The man shifted his rifle to the left, toward a large stucco residence across the street and down three lots. Like most houses on this block, it had been built in the past year, a gargantuan Mediterranean design on a too small, featureless lot, ostentatious and pathetic at the same time, jutting up from the flat Texas prairie. He pushed the sunglasses up onto his forehead and squinted into the eyepiece of the Leopold scope. The details of the suburban yard sprang to life: the deep green of the chemically treated grass; the black mulch in the beds lining the front of the house; the yellow and red and blue of the flowers bursting from the plastic garden-center trays resting haphazardly on the lawn, waiting to be planted. He eased his sunglasses back down and from a black duffel bag at his feet pulled out a handheld radio scanner. The device had been programmed with the frequencies for police and city services for Plano, Texas, the location of the house and this street. His employer was not without influence in certain government agencies and had made sure the frequencies were accurate. He turned on the scanner, set the volume to low, and placed a wireless earpiece in one ear. Next, he removed a black plastic device about the size of a deck of cards. He extended a stubby antenna and switched on the power, making sure the LED indicator was lit. The electronic instrument operated an extremely small and carefully placed explosive charge, designed to succeed if for some reason he chose not to use the rifle. He ignored the smell of raw lumber and fresh plywood tickling his throat. He didn’t know how long the wait would be, so he removed a small bag of organic cashews and ate a handful, keeping his attention focused on the house. Fifteen minutes later, a figure appeared in the front yard. The man removed his shades and peered through the scope. The optics brought the image into plain view: a tall, thin woman, olive-skinned, attractive, in her late thirties. She wore a pair of dirty khaki shorts and a faded, oversized red sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. The owner of the house. The man nestled the butt of the Remington against his shoulder and placed his index finger on the trigger. CHAPTER TWO Dr. Anita Nazari wiped the perspiration from her face with the bottom of her red sweatshirt. She tried not to think about the e-mail and its implications, telling herself she was sweating from the heat of a Texas springtime, too intense after the past three years in Denver. She grabbed a tray of petunias and began to work, placing each tiny container exactly an equal distance from its siblings, forming two perfectly parallel rows in the bed in front of her new house. The symmetry reminded her of test tubes in a rack. Ordered and precise. Safe. Anita picked up Container One, Row One and—with more force than intended—plunged the trowel into the moist earth, making a deep wedge-shaped hole. She squeezed the container until the roots slipped free from the sides, dropped the plant into the hole, and patted the dirt around the tiny stem. With a steady rhythm, she planted five more flowers and then stopped to wipe the sweat out of her eyes again. Her heart was racing, her face slick and beaded. She could no longer pretend it was from the exertion. She had hoped the mindless activity would take her mind off the e-mail, but it hadn’t. She jumped at the sound of a throaty exhaust rumbling down the street. Anita turned as the yellow Porsche Boxster belonging to Tom Maguire, her boyfriend of the past two months, stopped in front of her mailbox. He got out, waved once, and approached. Anita sat back on the grass and hugged herself. “How’s it goin—” Tom stopped, the smile slowly disappearing from his face. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” Anita’s voice was barely a whisper. “Mira okay?” Tom looked toward the house. Mira was Anita’s ten-year-old daughter. “Yes.” Anita nodded. “She’s inside, doing her homework.” As if on cue, the front door opened and a gangly girl in jeans and a Britney Spears T-shirt stepped outside. “Hey, Tom.” The girl grinned, teeth too big for her head. Tom smiled back. “Hey, kiddo.” “Your homework.” Anita stood and tossed the trowel into the dirt as if it were a dagger. “Are you finished yet?” “Almost.” Her daughter sat down on the steps and yawned. “Long division sucks.” “Please go back inside and finish.” Anita looked up and down the street. No cars that didn’t belong were visible. “And don’t use that kind of language.” “Wait till you get to algebra.” Tom winked. “That really sucks.” They both laughed. Anita bit her lip and closed her eyes, trying  to control the feeling of anger masking the helplessness rising like a bubble from her stomach. “Mira.” Anita’s voice was tight and low. “Go inside. And finish your homework.” “C’mon, let her stay out here for a while,” Tom said. “It’s a gorgeous day.” Anita turned to her boyfriend, a happy-go-lucky former college football player who sometimes acted like he might have played one too many games without a helmet. She wondered if he had ever known true fear, the kind that makes your bowels watery and forces you to question the existence of anything but the evil humans do to each other. She wondered what it would be like to not know fear, to simply enjoy life and a sunny afternoon. She tried to remember what things were like before the first e-mail. She couldn’t. Copyright © 2007 by Harry Hunsicker. All rights reserved. 
 

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Excerpted from Crosshairs: A Lee Henry Oswald Mystery by Harry Hunsicker
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.