Page 66 of Into the Fire

As Evan followed him into increasing dimness, Tommy stepped across a roll of what looked like green conveyer belt. At least fifty feet long, it stretched along the oil-spotted concrete floor, a python lying in wait.

Evan squinted down. Puttyish substance, thirty-six inches thick, like a parcel of linoleum ready to be unrolled. “Is that— Wait, Tommy. Is that C-4?”

Tommy paused, tugged at his mustache, and looked down. “Not just any C-4,” he said. “Detasheet from a stash that predates the mandatory addition of taggants. Totally untraceable—no coded microparticles in this slab o’ goodness. I took the lot off the books in ’82.” He smiled, showcasing the slender gap between his front teeth. “‘Expended in training.’ Had it in my inventory ever since, but I finally got around to slicing and dicing it for the Balls-Deep State.”

He detoured around a heavy-barrel Browning M2, giving it a loving nudge with his boot. “Been restoring this .50-cal meat chopper. It ain’t the aircraft version, but you’d better eat your Wheaties if you wanna lug this hog around. And over here…”

Years of experience had taught Evan to pry Tommy off show-and-tell as quickly as possible, so he set down the medical-waste bucket on the workbench, the ARES pistols inside clanking like hammers. “I need you to puddle these, turn them to slag.”

Evan always dispensed with his pistols after using them. The ARES were impossible to trace, sure, but each round still bore the signature from the individual barrel it had been fired from, as well as scratches introduced during the loading-and-feeding process. This meant that if he used the same gun in two shootings, a connection could be established between the incidents. Even if the projo was mangled, a fired case left on the scene carried distinctive tool marks from the firing pin, extractor, ejector, or the breech face. He always collected shell cases when he could and wore latex gloves while loading magazines, but if there was one thing Jack had drilled into his bone marrow, it was that you could never be too sure.

“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.”