In the hour past midnight, five sharpshooters listen for the cadence count. Their .30-caliber rifles are perfectly matched, although one will fire a blank.

He waits against a white cinderblock wall, hooded and strapped to a black metal chair. His chest rises, breathing in air twisted with anticipation; offering no final words.

An eye for an eye has been the Utah way. Preached by home-grown religion; a blood atonement for blood spilled. Three Utah men have died in the barrage of bullets since 1977.  Two more await their day.

When the deafening reports explode, the booms repeat as if bouncing off Wasatch canyon walls. Two minutes from trigger pull to death.

Afterward, I stick my fingers in the bullet holes left in the wall.