Casper gun

Too far, Casper thought. He hadn’t been told the shot was five hundred yards—his benefactors had only texted him the vantage point an hour ago. If he’d known, he’d have asked for a larger rifle. His favorite .308 could bring down a bear at two hundred yards, but the cartridges were packed for efficiency, and outside of 250 yards there wasn’t enough powder to give the round punch. It would go rainbow-arced and wide.
True, in the military he’d used the same gun to shoot at commies at seven hundred yards, but this wasn’t a communist: it was a seventeen-year-old girl. He didn’t want a kneecap or a gut wound, he didn’t want her to die after a half-hour of bleeding out. He wanted it clean—it had to be humane. Casper had a girl about that age and, necessary though this was, he’d never sleep right again if she died screaming.


Chapter 11, Page 161-162