Into the Fire(52)

“You’re spoiling another set of perfectly good pistols,” Tommy said. “You do realize that this little security measure of yours is an affront to my fine handiwork?”

The Second Commandment, Evan thought. How you do anything is how you do everything.

He gave Tommy a been-there look.

“Okay, okay.” Tommy showed him his palms, relenting as he collapsed into a rolling chair behind the workbench. He spun a Pelican case to face Evan and popped the lid. Nestled in foam were a dozen fresh ARES 1911s. “I got your new EDCs here. Did an action job on ’em. Smoother than a frog’s asshole.”

“They’re notoriously smooth, are they? Frog assholes?”

“I ain’t field-tested it. But so says the literature.” Tommy slid the case across to Evan. “If they don’t understand English, make sure they understand lead.”

Evan picked one up to feel the familiar heft, like an extension of his arm. Yet another reason he’d chosen the aluminum pistols as his everyday carry.

He lined the sights on the coffeepot gurgling behind Tommy like a witch’s cauldron. Then he ran a quick target-acquisition drill, swinging the muzzle to a cutting torch, a set of welder’s goggles, an ashtray made from a ship’s battered porthole. He was pleased to note that his vision stayed crisp—no double images, no blurring, no light streaks. Getting the concussion behind him was a necessity, given what lay ahead.

“That’ll steer you into the fray,” Tommy said, chinning at the pistol. “Then you hit ’em with the ‘iles.’ Agile, mobile, and hostile.”

Evan started to turn away, but Tommy snapped the intact fingers of his right hand. “Take it for a spin, please.”

At the back of the space, Tommy had a few paper targets strapped to bales of hay and more bales stacked up against the wall. Evan put on eyes-and-ears protection, firmed his stance, and went for the one-hole drill—all the rounds through the same hole.

The first eight shots went according to plan, but then a rush of light-headedness fuzzed his vision, his brain reminding him that it was still displeased about being slammed into parking-lot asphalt. His ninth shot edged south, turning the solitary hole in the target into a figure eight.

Intense focus or quick movements seemed to dial up the symptoms. Not helpful given that everything to come would be dependent on intense focus and quick movements. He lowered the pistol, blinking himself back to normal and hoping Tommy didn’t notice the sheen of sweat that had sprung up on his forehead.

Tommy cluck-clucked. “You got ‘How’d I do?’ syndrome. Peeked up and dropped the last shot. Didn’t no one teach you shit?”

When it came to shooting, Evan knew better than to compete with Tommy even when his head was clear. He returned the ARES to the foam lining and clicked the Pelican case lid shut. “I also need a sniper rifle.”

“For what?”

“To snipe.”

“I’m getting some FN Ballistas in next week that’ll make your socks roll up and down.”

“I don’t have till next week.”

“What range we talking?”

Evan told him.

Tommy waved him off with a four-fingered hand. “You don’t need a highly specialized sniper gun for that. You can just zero a deer gun.”

Evan said, “You’re thinking a 700 Remington?”

“Most common hunting rifle in North America. Millions of them. Hits your checkmarks for traceability and availability. Hell, I got a heap in the back. We pimp it out with an old-school Swarovski scope, you are GTG.”

Tommy kicked back in his Aeron chair, rolling across the slick concrete and disappearing into the shadowy fringe of the lair. A racket ensued—rusty hinges lifting, curse words, something clattering to the floor. The whir of the wheels presaged Tommy’s return. Sure enough, he sailed back into view, Remington rifle across his lap. He lifted it in triumph.

Evan said, “You got it in tan?”





28



Eleventh-Hour Surprise





In the corner of Joey’s apartment, Dog the dog lapped water from a Red Vines tub. Evan sat on the floor and looked him over. The laceration on Dog’s cheek was healing nicely, though the restitched flap of skin on his chest was red and inflamed. Evan smeared some Neosporin over the stitches and then checked the strips of exposed flesh at the muzzle and hind legs where the duct tape had been removed. Healthy white skin, the fur starting to grow back. Dog shoved his wet nose into the hollow of Evan’s neck, and Evan steered the big head away, scratching behind the ears.

Joey’s typing, a white-noise constant since Evan had given her Max’s thumb drive a half hour ago, contributed a pleasing background hum.

“Dog’s doing well,” Evan said.

“You like it so much, you should find a permanent home for it,” Joey said. “Sooner rather than later. We don’t want it getting comfortable.”

“He’s still healing,” Evan said.

“I know. It kept me up whimpering all night.”

“It’s hard work taking care of someone else,” Evan said.

Joey snapped around in her chair to glower at him from her workstation. “What does that mean?”

“Precisely what it sounds like it means.”