Condor signaled the waitress. "Look at the eyes, they always give the man away."

The waitress arrived to take his order, and Luke glanced at the other man's drink. As if reading his thoughts, Condor said, "I never consume alcohol. It dulls the senses and impairs reaction time."

"Precisely why most people do drink it. Personally, I like the taste." Luke smiled at the woman, ordered a beer, then turned to Condor. "Pretty fancy digs."

"It ain't shabby, that's for sure." The man raised his glass of tomato juice to his lips.

"And you're a member?"

"Let's just say, I have friends in high places."

They chatted about nothing for a few more minutes; Luke sensed Condor was still sizing him up. Testing the waters.

"I'm curious," he said, "why did you decide to talk to me?"

Condor shrugged. "I like your books. My wife likes your books."

"You're married?"

"You sound surprised. Aren't I allowed?"

Luke took a swallow of his beer. "I suppose. It just doesn't fit the image of the hired killer."

"Your image," he murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Hollywood's."

"Does she know what you do?"

"Of course not. I'm a software salesman. I travel a lot."

"You have kids?"

"Two. Age six and eight. Boys."

Luke thought about that a moment. "Do you ever imagine how she would feel, if she found out? If your kids found out?"

"That's not going to happen. There's no reason they would."

"And if you're killed on assignment?"

"The Agency would take care of my cover from there." Condor stood. "You shoot much, Dallas?"

Luke followed him to his feet. "Enough to write about it with some authority."

"Good." Condor smiled. "Let's go have some fun."

The glitz and glamour of the gun club's common areas ended as they entered the indoor range. Garagelike, windowless and well insulated, it was outfitted with six firing stations, each with a mechanical pulley used to move paper targets forward and back.

They were alone in the range. On the table at station one sat two boxes of ammo and a gun.

Condor crossed to the table and picked up the weapon. "Beretta 9mm, semiautomatic."

While he spoke, he examined the gun, checking the magazine, pulling back on the slide, then releasing it, tipping it from one side to the other, running his fingers expertly over the metal. He handled the weapon with reverence and familiarity. Like it was an old friend.

"Fifteen round magazine," he continued, "weighs 2.52 pounds, fully loaded. Muzzle velocity 1280 feet per second, rivaling the.357."

He loaded three clips, then slid one into the magazine. "You own any hardware, Dallas?"

"A.44 Magnum."

Condor met his eyes. "That's a lot of firepower. More than I would have thought an author would need."

Luke laughed. "I bought it when I was writing Last Dance. What can I say? I like Dirty Harry movies. I saw my lead character as a kind of Harry Callahan, a rugged loner. A renegade."

Condor shook his head, disagreeing. "A renegade's an outlaw. Callahan was the ultimate lawman. He lived by a code of justice. Of an eye for an eye. Fight firepower with firepower, violence with violence. Simple."

"Is it simple? Is that the code you live by?"

"Basically. We live in a violent society, Luke. No matter how big and bad someone is, they're made vulnerable by the same fragile physical shell as everyone else. Think of death as the ultimate problem solver."

"And that's what you do? How you think of yourself, as a problem solver?"

"And a patriot, yes. Let's see what this baby can do." He clipped a paper target, a black silhouette of a human torso, onto the pulley, sent it back fifty or so feet and slipped on a headset. He aimed and fired, one shot after another, the explosions near simultaneous, emptying the magazine.

Condor flipped the pulley switch, retrieving the target. He had blown away the target's head and riddled its heart with holes. He replaced the target with a new one, then turned to Luke, gun butt out. "Your turn."

Luke took the weapon and reloaded. The gun felt heavier in his hands than the two and a half pounds Condor had quoted; it felt colder. He stepped up to the firing line, adjusted his target, aimed and fired, neither as quick nor, he knew without looking, as accurately as Condor.

He emptied the magazine and checked the target, grateful to see that it looked like most of his shots had at least hit the target.

"Not bad. For a civilian."

Luke's lips lifted and he handed the weapon to the other man. "Thanks."

"All that fancy hardware you see guys like me using in the movies," Condor murmured, jacking another clip of ammo into the magazine, "that's strictly Hollywood. For the professional, simple is best."

He slipped on his headset and approached the firing line. As before, he aimed, emptying the magazine in a matter of seconds. He slid the headset off and crossed back to Luke. "A gun, a knife, a garrote. Simple, effective, quick."

He reloaded the clips, his movements economical, automatic. He had done the same thing so many times, Luke saw, he didn't even have to think about what he was doing.

"The thing is," Condor continued, "the pro has to weigh firepower and effectiveness against practicality, traceability and cost. That.44 of yours has way more punch than I'd need, but it's not such a bad choice for you, if you can handle its kick. There's an intruder in your house, you want to blow as big a hole in him as you can. You might only have one shot, and who knows where you're going to put it."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

Condor laughed, then continued. "A weapon is a tool and nothing more. Not a lover or a pet. You can't get attached to your weapon-you never use one twice."

"Never?"

"Never. The same weapon would link the hits. Any mechanic worth his salt disposes of his weapon after each hit. In the case of a gun, when possible, I dismantle it first. The pieces are disposed of in a variety of locations, the butt in a Dumpster, the barrel down a storm drain, you get the picture. That way I know the weapon will never be recovered."

"Why not dispose of the body?" Luke asked. "That's evidence. No body, no crime to investigate."

"Yeah, but tougher to get rid of, wouldn't you say?" He handed the Beretta to Luke. "Remember, all police adhere to the same theory of crime solving. Motive, means and opportunity. Statistics show that most violent crimes are committed by people who know one another, so that's the first place the local boys look. Get rid of the weapon and all of a sudden you have a crime, but no motive and no weapon. I'm long gone before the local boys have even finished interrogating the wife, business partner, best friend."

Luke took the gun, replaced the clip and stepped up. He took aim, then fired. This time more confidently and with more accuracy. He slipped off the headset and handed the gun to the other man.

"Before the hit, what goes through your mind?"

"Getting in, getting the job done and getting out. The professional has two goals. Kill the target. And walk away. That's it."

"What about after the hit?" Luke asked. "You don't think about the victim's wife or kids? You don't question whether you're doing the right thing?"

"They're not people to me, Dallas. They're targets. A name and a face on a piece of paper." He laid the gun on the table. "I'm not a murderer. I'm not some amoral psycho. Those guys make me sick. They have no loyalty or self-control. They're selfish little bastards who act on whim and without honor.

"I'm a patriot. A soldier. I work for my country, and I don't question my orders." At Luke's expression he laughed. "Don't be naive, every government in the world employs men like me. We're a political necessity.

"I love my country and my family. Just like any other man, I'd do whatever's necessary to protect them. To keep them safe."