“Okay,” he said, no hesitation.
I said, “It’s ridiculous.”
He said nothing. I thought: Two hundred yards, no body armor, in the open air. Makes no sense. So I asked.
I said, “Who’s the target?”
He said, “A horse.”
I was quiet for a long moment. “What kind of a horse?”
“A Thoroughbred racehorse.”
I asked, “You own racehorses?”
He said, “Dozens of them.”
“Good ones?”
“Some of the very best.”
“So the target is what, a rival?”
“A thorn in my side.”
After that, it made a lot more sense. The guy said, “I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought about it very carefully. It’s got to look accidental. We can’t just shoot the horse in the head. That’s too obvious. It’s got to look like the real target was the owner, but your aim was off and the horse is collateral damage. So the shot can’t look placed. It’s got to look random. Neck, shoulder, whatever. But I need death or permanent disability.”
I said, “Which explains your preference for the Barrett.”
He nodded. I nodded back. A Thoroughbred racehorse weighs about half a ton. A .308 or a NATO round fired randomly into its center mass might not do the job. Not in terms of death or permanent disability. But a big .50 shell almost certainly would. Even if you weigh half a ton, it’s pretty hard to struggle along with a hole the size of a garbage can blown through any part of you.
I asked, “Who’s the owner? Is he a plausible target in himself?”
The guy told me who the owner was, and we agreed he was a plausible target. Rumors, shady connections.
Then I said, “What about you? Are you two enemies, personally?”
“You mean, will I be suspected of ordering the hit that misses?”
“Exactly.”
“Not a chance,” my guy said. “We don’t know each other.”
“Except as rival owners.”
“There are hundreds of rival owners.”
“Is a horse of yours going to win if this guy’s doesn’t?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“So they’ll look at you.”
“Not if it looks like the man was the target, instead of the horse.”
I asked, “When?”
He told me anytime within the next four days.