Dar looked at the two of them sitting there on his couch, so comfortable with one another. “No,” he said.

“But—” began Tom.

“If he says no, he means no,” interrupted Syd. She pulled a semiautomatic pistol from her belt under her loose vest. It looked like her own ninemillimeter pistol, but chambered for a heavier round. “Are you familiar with one of these, Dar?”

“A handgun?” said Dar. “I saw one in a dead man’s hand this afternoon.”

Syd ignored his sarcasm. “This kind of Sig Pro, I mean.”

Dar looked down at the small semiautomatic with obvious distaste.

“I know you’ve seen Sig-Sauers,” said Syd. “This is the new SIGARMS polymer design. Very small, very light.” She set the pistol on the table. “Go ahead…heft it, try it.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Dar.

“Look, Dar,” Syd began, and stopped as if fighting to keep her voice under control. “We didn’t get you into this. When those LAPD detectives—and we think they’re both on the take—showed Trace the video reconstruction you’d given the accident unit, well…that’s when the Russians were sent after you.”

“We’re certain the Alliance has brought in some top Russian mafia figures to enforce their takeover of major fraud,” said Tom Santana softly, slowly. “We have evidence that Dallas Trace himself has hired an ex-KGB agent as his primary enforcer—a member of the Organizatsiya, Russia’s organized-crime syndicate. This enforcer is bringing in more Russian mafia as the need arises.”

“And you think this little polymer Sig Pro is going to make a difference?”

“It could make all the difference,” said Syd, her voice angry now. “You saw how easily Tom and I got into your condo building. There’s a single San Diego PD unmarked car parked across the street, but those guys are on overtime and they’re probably both half asleep by now.” She dropped the magazine out of the pistol and set it aside, racking the semiautomatic to show that there was no bullet in the chamber. “This is my personal weapon, Dar. This type of Sig Pro fires .40-caliber Smith and Wesson ammo and it’s about the most accurate semiauto on the market. The U.S. Secret Service likes these weapons…the Sig Pro comes up well on target and puts the rounds right where they’re pointed.”

“At another human being,” said Dar.

Syd ignored him. She took the canvas off the long package. “The pistol would be for personal protection when you’re out alone,” she went on. “I’ve got a permit in the works for you, but you won’t be arrested for carrying it no matter what. And for the apartment and the cabin…”

“A shotgun,” said Dar.

“I know you were in the Marines,” said Syd. “I know you were trained in the use of weapons…”

“More than a quarter of a century ago,” said Dar.

“It’s like riding a bike,” said Tom Santana, no sarcasm in his words.

“You had a .410 Savage over-and-under at some point,” said Syd. “You probably recognize this shotgun. It’s a classic.”

“A Remington Model 870 pump-action twelve-gauge,” said Dar flatly. “Yeah, I’ve seen them.”

Syd reached into her big bag and then set two boxes of cartridges on the coffee table. Dar could see that one box held Smith & Wesson .40-caliber bullets, the other a yellow box of 00 buckshot shells.

The chief investigator nodded toward Dar’s front door.

“Somebody you don’t like comes through that door, Dar, a single pull on this trigger releases nine .33-caliber lead pellets at muzzle velocities ranging from eleven hundred to thirteen hundred feet per second. That means as much lead in the air as eight rounds from a ninemillimeter semiautomatic.”

“Close-range firepower,” said Tom Santana, “with quick-velocity drop-off and less risk of overpenetration than most firearms. It’s why police prefer them for close-in situations. And under…say, twenty-five yards…it’s almost impossible to miss.”

Dar said nothing. The three sat in silence for several minutes. The sunlight had gone.

“Dar,” said Syd at last, leaning over the table to touch his knee, “if you’re not going to work with us, or let me be around you, then you need some extra protection.”

Dar shook his head. “No on the pistol. That’s final. I’ll keep the shotgun under the bed.”

Chief Investigator Olson and Inspector Santana looked at one another. Then Syd took the Sig Pro and its ammunition and put them away in her bag. “Thank you for keeping the shotgun at least, Dar. The magazine holds five shells, and the pump-action—”

“I’ve fired a Remington 870 before,” interrupted Dar. “It’s like riding a bike.” He stood. “Anything else?”

Both Syd and Tom shook his hand at the door, but neither said anything until Tom handed Dar his card. “I can be reached at the last number at any time, day or night,” said the FIST investigator.

Dar slid the card in his jeans pocket, but said, “I’ve already got Syd’s card somewhere.”

For an hour after they left, Dar just paced the apartment, not even turning on the lights. He slid the shotgun and the shells under his bed and came back out into the main living area, restless. He poured another glass of Scotch and stared out at the lights of the city below and at the slow movement of boats in the bay. Aircraft landed and took off from Lindbergh Field, suggesting a purposefulness and energy that Dar did not share.

Finishing his drink, he went into his bedroom cubicle again. In the bathroom he turned on the shower and stood under the hot spray for several minutes, letting the water pound some of the whiskey fuzziness out of his head.

He came out into the dark bedroom carrying the towel and drying his short hair. He turned on a light. The bedroom was merely an enclosure created by built-in bookcases, but his closet was fully enclosed and its door had come with a full-length mirror that he had meant to take down. Now he blinked at his own reflection.

Is there anything sadder-looking than a naked middle-aged man? thought Dar. He started toward the closet door, as much to get the mirror out of view by opening the door as to find his pajamas, when the first shot was fired. The mirror shattered. Broken glass cut Dar’s face and chest. He stumbled backward, knocking the lamp off the low dresser.

The second shot was fired into darkness.

There were so many cops in Dar’s apartment that it looked like a donut shop during graveyard watch.

A ballistics team worked on re-creating the precise angle of the two bullets from where they shattered the high windows on the north side to their point of impact. Sheets and painter’s canvas had been hastily nailed up over the other windows. There were half a dozen uniformed officers in the room and more plainclothes people. Special Agent Jim Warren was there representing the FBI, with his assistant, a short, intense woman. Captain Hernandez from the San Diego Police Department was there with six or eight of his usual entourage, as was Captain Tom Sutton of the CHP. Syd Olson and Tom Santana were also there, sitting on the leather couch and staring at the rifle on the coffee table.

“I’ve never seen a rifle like that before,” said one of the CHP officers. The man was sipping coffee from one of Dar’s white mugs.

“It’s a civilian version of one of the sniper rifles your SWAT team would use,” said Syd.

“Have we run down the make?” asked Captain Hernandez.

“I recognize it,” said Tom Santana. “It debuted at an NRA show in Seattle a few years ago. It’s a Tikka 595 Sporter with a Weaver T32 scope.”

“How far away was the rooftop?” asked Captain Sutton.

“Almost seven hundred yards to the north of here,” said Syd. “I actually saw the first muzzle flash and was on my way before the second shot was fired.” She nodded toward two uniformed officers sipping soft drinks in the kitchen area. “I was staked out on the hill above the condo, so I radioed the unmarked car out front to check on Dr. Minor while I went in pursuit of the assailant.”