CHAPTER 41

Their model bomb wasn’t that heavy, maybe eighty or one hundred pounds, but it was unwieldy to carry between them. When they came within sight of the men they were here to meet‑ and like last time, there were only four of them, not the expected five‑ one of them motioned to a spot on the ground to show where they should leave their burden. When they got to that spot, they put it down.

One of the other men had a brand‑ new‑ looking satchel at his feet, a bag of the sort that might be holding their twenty thousand dollars for the exchange. The last two men were the ones with the automatic rifles.

The weapons these guys were sporting appeared to be some knocked‑ together variant of an AR‑ 15, but with a very short barrel, stock target sights, custom noise suppression, and a nonstandard magazine. Good luck trying to buy something like that off the shelf. Not the most versatile choice for all‑ purpose combat, obviously laughable for hunting or target practice, but flip it to full auto and it would do every bit as well as a sawed‑ off shotgun for antipersonnel work at close quarters.

Situations like this one, for example.

The armed man to the left held his gun like he’d been born with it in his hands. The other one didn’t seem at all at ease, either with his weapon or his assigned enforcer’s role. His hands were deep in his pockets and his rifle hung haphazardly by its sling over his shoulder, as though it had been put there against his will and he had no desire to deal with it.

Upon their arrival Kearns had made a bit of small talk with each member of the group, and soon all agreed it was time to do the deal they’d come to do.

“Here’s your money, ” said the man on the end. He’d introduced himself as Randy at their meeting the previous night. As Kearns walked over to retrieve the satchel Randy motioned to his men to pick up their merchandise and stow it in the back of the cargo truck.

The rear door was opened and two of them carefully carried the bomb up the mover’s ramp, set it down, and flipped on a hanging work light in the compartment to check over their purchase. Meanwhile, Kearns had come back with the satchel to stand at Danny’s side.

“Ain’t you gonna count it? ”

This deadpan question came from one of the guys with the guns, the one doing his level best to come off like a natural‑ born bad‑ ass.

Kearns shrugged. “If we’re short, at least I know where to find you guys tomorrow morning, am I right? ”

That brought a little chuckle from everyone‑ everyone except the man who’d spoken up.

Danny’s attention was on the other contents that were now visible in the truck’s rear compartment.

Down the center, on a welded‑ together, waist‑ high metal rack, was what appeared to be a long, silvery torpedo. Not really, though; the nose was too blunt and flat and its far end was tapered and ringed by large aerodynamic fins. It looked like something from a war museum, an overbuilt piece of heavy‑ duty air‑ dropped ordnance from a bygone era of the Cold War.

That wasn’t all. Tucked back in the corner, away from the light, some thing was wrapped up and bound in a black plastic tarp on the floor. It could have been a lot of things, but to Danny’s current frame of mind, what it looked like most was an occupied body bag.

He glanced at Kearns, and by all appearances he was seeing the same thing.

A loud ringtone from the phone on the belt of the man named Randy broke the silence. He held up a polite index finger, as if to say, Sorry, I’ve got to take this, turned, took a half step away, and answered.

And that, Danny thought, would be a call from el‑ Amir.

Kearns bent and put the satchel down between them, shivered a bit, breathed some warm air through his hands, and then put them into his jacket pockets. When he looked at Danny, just for a second or two, there was such a crystal‑ clear communication between them that he almost heard the words form in his head.

You were right. Now we’re going to let these guys give us just one more bad sign, the tiniest sign, and then we put their lights out. No “freeze, FBI!, ” no warning shots; we shoot to kill until they’re all down, or we are. And you and I both know who gets it first.

Danny took his right hand from his pocket, casually scratched the side of his nose, feigned a leisurely yawn, and then let his arm hang back down by his side.

Randy, the one still on the phone, looked back over his shoulder.

He was listening intently, not talking; his eyes went first to Stuart Kearns, and then over to Danny, and then he turned back around, with his back to them, as he’d been before. A few more seconds passed, and still facing away, Randy’s free hand came up slowly and touched the shoulder of the man to his right, the mouthy guy who looked like he just couldn’t wait for the lead to start flying.

And that was it.

When you’ve practiced enough it gets to look like one fluid motion, but there are four distinct parts to a quick draw, at least to the one that

Molly had taught him. In the beginning the count is slow and you stop between the steps so your teacher can make sure you’ve got them right. After a few months and several thousand repeats, though, it starts to go so fast that if you blink, you might miss it.

Danny’s right hand swept back to clear his clothing and found the pistol grip just where he’d left it; he pulled the weapon free and brought it forward, the barrel coming parallel to the ground and his left hand joining the solid grasp; he extended toward center‑ mass of his target with the iron sight rising level to his eye; and at the end of the forward movement, as it all came together at his ideal firing position, without a pause he squeezed the trigger to its stop.

The boom of their first two shots was almost simultaneous, though Kearns had a much easier draw from his pocket. They’d chosen the same primary target, the man to whom Randy had given his too‑ obvious go‑ ahead, the guy who would have cut them in half with a hail of bullets if they’d given him half a chance to shoot first. As Kearns took off to his left, still firing, their designated executioner was crumpling backward, likely dead on his feet, but surely out of commission.

Danny broke right, aiming by the seat of his pants and squeezing off another shot as soon as any one of the scattering men appeared in his line of fire. He was a below‑ average marksman on a static range, but now he and his targets were moving and they were starting to return fire, so he was shooting a lot but not hitting much of anything.

But at least he’d gotten their full attention. In the next moment he ran out of ammo and good ideas at the very same time as the second man with the heavy artillery had finally found his wits and started shooting. A jagged line of bullet impacts stitched across the sand toward him, and as Danny dropped to the ground in a shallow gully he heard a tire explode and the windows shatter in their van just behind him. He saw Stuart Kearns step from behind the cover of one of the random concrete walls, and the FBI man made his next four rounds count. As the last gunshots echoed back from the mountains, three of the men were lying motionless on the ground, and one was unaccounted for, but only for the moment.

The silence was broken by the sound of a diesel engine turning over and starting. Danny watched Kearns limping toward the back of the truck, then grabbing on and hoisting himself up into the open compartment.

As the truck dropped into gear and started to roll Danny got to his feet and ran for it. The faster he ran the faster it went, and it had nearly accelerated to the point of no return when he caught up to the tailgate, stumbled forward to get a grasp on to Stuart Kearns’ extended hand, and felt himself pulled up and in.

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