What doesn’t make sense is that none of these people have any connection to Cal.

I feel certain this sniper is American, and that he’s got a beef with me. Call it a hunch, call it projection, but this mother fucker is trying to prove something to me.

I know who you are.

He left me that note, and not because he looked me up after he missed that shot at the rally. He already knew who I was, I’m sure of it. Which means that he heard of “The Devil of Mosul.” That’s what the insurgents called me. And that’s what some of the other soldiers started calling me, too. They thought it was funny—a badass nickname.

I never liked it. I preferred “Deuce”, which is what my own unit called me. Raylan gave me that nickname, after I won a massive pot with pocket twos. I was thinking of my brother Nero back home when I bet—thinking how he would play the hand. I didn’t expect to win. But for once I was lucky.

Maybe this other sniper knew me as The Devil, not Deuce.

Maybe he saw it as a challenge.

But why target Cal? Why not take a shot at me himself, or someone close to me? Cal’s my brother-in-law, but he’s not the most obvious target . . .

That’s when my eyes run over a name I recognize for a different reason.

Christian Du Pont.

And the puzzle piece clicks into place in my brain.

The Du Ponts are one of the wealthiest families in America. Pierre Samuel Du Pont started manufacturing gunpowder in the early 1800s. Their empire expanded into chemicals, automotive, agriculture, and more. They intermarried with the Astors, the Rockefellers, the Roosevelts, and the Vanderbilts. And they had children. So many children. More than four thousand descendants. Which meant that even their vast fortune was divided into too many pieces.

Callum went to a fancy private school with some of those descendants. In fact, his best friend and roommate was Jack Du Pont. Unfortunately for Jack, as a third-cousin twice removed, he inherited the name and nothing else. So he worked for the Griffins, as a driver and a bodyguard.

It was in that capacity that he smashed my little brother Sebastian’s knee and ended his basketball career. So I can’t say I was the biggest fan of the guy. But we put aside our differences when Cal married Aida. Part of the agreement was that we wouldn’t seek revenge for Seb’s knee.

While I never became friendly with Jack, I knew him. I even worked with him on a couple of jobs.

Until last year, when the Polish mafia cut his throat.

Mikolaj Wilk kidnapped Cal’s youngest sister, Nessa. He teamed up with the Bratva to try and shatter the alliance between the Griffins and the Gallos. They lured us to Graceland Cemetery.

Jack was there, helping Callum make the ransom drop. Nero and I scaled the cemetery wall, planning to flank the Russians and the Polacks.

But Miko was too quick for us. He sent the Russians off with the ransom, and he fooled Callum with a decoy girl. When Jack chased after the money, one of Mikolaj’s men crept up behind him and slit his throat. Jack bled out against a tombstone.

Ironically, Mikolaj and Nessa are married now. We’ve made a truce with the Polish mafia and killed the head of the Bratva.

But that doesn’t mean our feud had no casualties—there’s no bringing poor Jack back from the dead.

I scan the entry for Christian Du Pont—graduated from the US Army Sniper Course in Fort Benning, one year after me. Deployed to Iraq almost the exact same time that I was there.

He’s got a decent record—a couple of commendations, three bronze stars awarded.

I never heard of him, though.

“Hey,” I say to Nero, interrupting his search of the sniper school records. “See if you can find anything else on Christian Du Pont.”

Nero starts searching that name.

“I see his sniper school records,” he says. “He beat your score on the Advanced Range test.”

“He did?”

I go over behind Nero so I can look over his shoulder at the screen. Sure enough, Christian beat me by just one point. He scored lower on Land Navigation, though.

“Is there a picture of him?” I say.

Nero pulls up a couple shots of Christian in training, though he’s hard to differentiate from the other soldiers in their helmets and gear. But then Nero finds his headshot, the one they use for military IDs.

“Holy shit,” Nero says.

We stare silently. It’s a bit like seeing a ghost. Christian and Jack Du Pont could be brothers—same strawberry blond hair and narrow blue eyes. The only difference is that Christian is younger in his photo, and his hair is buzzed.

“What’s their relation?” I ask Nero.

“Doesn’t say here, obviously,” Nero says. “But it lists his parents as Claire and Alexander Du Pont. And there’s a picture of Alexander with his brother Horace on this Yale alumni site. So looks like Jack and Christian were cousins.”

“So he blames us for getting his cousin killed. Why didn’t he do anything about it until now?”

“He only just came home,” Nero tells me. “Look at his discharge records—he was in Iraq until the start of the summer.”

“Why’d he leave?”

“It says ‘Chapter 5-13’ dismissal.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Nero types, then reads. “Separation because of personality disorder. A ‘pre-existing maladaptive pattern of behavior of long duration that interferes with a soldier’s ability to perform his duties.’ ”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it does not. Especially because he was just about to break your one-day record in Mosul.”

“You think he’s in competition with me?”

“Yeah,” Nero says, leaning back in his computer chair and folding his arms across his chest. “I do.”

“Show me his service record again,” I say.

Nero pulls it up, and I check the list of assignments, looking to see if Du Pont and I were ever in the same place at the same time. If we ever met without me remembering.

“We never served together,” I mutter. “But look at this . . .”

I point to his last deployment.

“He was in the forty-eighth two years ago.”

“So?” Nero says.

“That’s the same unit as Raylan.”

“Good,” Nero grunts. “Call him up. See what he knows.”

I do it right there and then, dialing my most recent contact number for my old friend, hoping it’s still the right one.

The phone rings and rings, then switches to voicemail, without any confirmation that it’s Raylan’s number.

Taking a chance, I say, “Long Shot, it’s me. I need your help. Call me as soon as you can.”

I hang up the phone. Nero’s still leaning back in his chair, thinking. He says, “If this Christian guy knows what actually happened in the cemetery, he’s not gonna be happy with Miko either.”

“That’s true. I’ll call Mikolaj to warn him,” I say.

I pull Kenwood’s hard drive out of my bag.

“I have another job for you,” I say. “Can you crack into this?”

“Probably,” Nero says, coolly.

“Let me know what you find."

“And what about Du Pont?” he says.