The Third Bullet (Bob Lee Swagger)
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Former marine sniper Bob Lee Swagger investigates one of the most enduring controversies of our time—the JFK assassination—in this New York Times bestselling “terrific thriller” (Booklist, starred review).
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author STEPHEN HUNTER takes on one of the most shocking crimes in American history when his celebrated hero ex-Marine sniper Bob Lee Swagger follows the smallest hint of a lead to its staggering conclusion—about the fateful third bullet that ended the life of President John F. Kennedy. . . .
the incline, and I stopped us about halfway to the overpass, just past the idiotic Roman folly on the right, and turned Lon 180 degrees back so that he could see Elm Street, the rise of the hill, the two buildings that commanded the angles, the depository and the one from which he’d be shooting—we hoped—the Dal-Tex Building a little behind it across Houston. We were alone on the sidewalk, with the traffic whizzing by us. “I make it about a hundred yards,” I said. “To which building?” Lon asked.
we both muttered something. Then I quickly hit seven to make sure the elevator continued its ascent after the stop on six. At seven, I pushed Lon out. The hall was darkish, empty, with no sign of human buzz or hum anywhere. Most people had gone to the plaza to see President Kennedy. I pushed Lon down the hall, watching the signs on or at the doorways slide by, watching the numbers climb, until at last we came to an intersection and turned to the left, down another, better-lit corridor (the
things, come down with colds, lose the grocery list. The hero has terrible flaws that cripple him. No plan ever works right. The universe is largely indifferent to the fate of the characters. But life counts, love is important, pain is real. You have to find a way to dramatize that.” “I understand,” he said. “Could you give me more clichés? Somehow that idea, what you’ve identified, I have a feeling it’s something Niles would have enjoyed thinking about.” “It’s not just plot elements. It’s also
Stephen Hunter Prologue Ostfront 1943 It was a balmy February day in Stalingrad, fourteen below, twelve feet of snow, near blizzard conditions. Another twelve feet were expected soon, and tomorrow would be colder. At the intersection of Tauvinskaya and Smarkandskaya, near the petrol tanks, not far from the Barrikady factory, the streets were empty of pedestrian or vehicular traffic, though arms, legs, feet shod and unshod, hands gloved and ungloved, even a head or two, stuck out of the
Wyoming, killing vermin at distances up to a thousand yards off a bench and experimenting with the best ways to get this done. He learned a lot, and it could be said that at one time, he knew more about long-distance shooting than any man on earth. He remained on good terms with his father. The official story: it was an accident. A Model 70 in .30-06, a prime hunting weapon, was dropped and it went off, though the safety was on. Nothing could be done except get Lon to the emergency room fast,