“It wobbles even more if the target has the chance to shoot back,” Bertone said. “Or even if the target is merely alive. You’ve never fired at a living human, have you?”

“That’s why I burn two hundred rounds a week. If it all becomes automatic, there’s less chance of clutching when it counts.”

Foley checked the chamber of the pistol in his hand to make sure it was clear before he closed the slide. The smooth metallic action snapped shut with authority. He put the gun into its nest in an aluminum Halliburton case and snapped the catches on the lid.

Bertone watched with an amusement he didn’t bother to conceal. Practice was one thing.

War was quite another.

Foley was dressed in a black special-ops coverall, black boots with soft rubber soles, a black baseball cap without insignia, and sport-shooters amber-colored glasses. He looked more like a member of a police weapons team than a fast-rising banker.

Quickly Foley opened a second metal case and lifted out a bulkier weapon, a German-made nine-millimeter submachine gun with a folding stock and a heavy, cylindrical sound suppressor threaded into its short, matte black barrel. This was Foley’s personal favorite weapon, a highly modified and militarized H amp;K MP5A.

“Sweet, huh?” Foley said, admiring the muted play of light over the weapon.

Bertone didn’t answer. He used guns, but he didn’t love them any more than he loved toilet paper.

Tools were made to be used.

Men were made to use them.

Smiling, Foley hefted the gun lightly. Because he was a civilian, it was illegal for him to own the silenced submachine gun. For that reason he seldom used it, not even in the shooting house of the most sophisticated firearms club in the gun-proud state of Arizona. Though he was both a member of the Arizona Territorial Gun Club and on its board of directors, normally the club wouldn’t have winked at the presence of a weapon whose possession would cost its owner twenty years in federal prison.

But the club was officially closed now, empty but for Foley and Bertone. Foley wasn’t going to turn himself in, and neither was Bertone.

“At least you got away from Elena’s party in time to shoot,” Foley said. “Silver lining and all that.”

“I always make time to shoot.”

Bertone watched as Foley slid under the spell of the deadly weapon. Some men got off on after-hours strip clubs or motorcycles, extreme boxing or illegal gambling. Foley got off on the shooting house, with its targets and its mock-up hostage rooms. Bertone, a behind-the-scenes owner of the Arizona Territorial Gun Club, was more than happy to ignore violations of federal firearms law by members of the club who could be useful to him.

Like Foley.

The banker pulled the bolt on the weapon, checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded, then snapped a twenty-shot magazine into place. The gun suddenly acquired the lethal weight that he loved. Nothing felt as good as holding a loaded weapon.

“May I?” Bertone asked politely, holding out his hands for the weapon.

Reluctantly Foley handed the gun over.

“Thank you,” Bertone said when the weapon was finally presented to him.

He knew how unhappy Foley was to part with the gun. That was why Bertone had asked for it. He hefted the gun, slapped the bolt forward skillfully, and lifted the gun to his shoulder, keeping the muzzle pointed downrange and in the clear.

He tested the gun’s balance, lowering it and then fitting it back into the firing position. A silencer usually made a weapon awkward, but this one was carefully designed. Much better than the planeloads of Cold War-era Kalashnikovs and Dragunovs that he’d sold over the years.

“How did she get away?” Foley asked, frowning as he watched Bertone handle his weapon with eerie skill.

Without benefit of sights, Bertone aimed at a standard silhouette target fifteen yards away and pulled the trigger.

The loudest sound was the working of the bolt as he fired three separate three-round bursts in quick succession. The soft fluorescent light of the range appeared magically through three tight groupings in the body mass of the target. He pointed the muzzle into the air and stepped back from the firing line.

“One of my security guards was too alert,” Bertone said. “He saw her heading into the garden alone, saw the lights go out, and was worried. He interrupted Gabriel before he could secure his target.”

“Well, that sucks. We need deniability and Kayla is it. Get her back.”

“Gabriel will reaquire her.”

Foley moved uneasily. He’d only met Gabriel once. It had been enough. The man’s eyes were empty.

Bertone smiled. “Gabriel is adept with many weapons. You would have liked the weapon he was carrying-a silenced Chinese pistol, absolutely untraceable. It’s so rare that even the FBI’s firearms library collection doesn’t have one.”

“Why didn’t he use it?”

“He didn’t have time. When the security guard charged in with a flashlight and a gun, Gabriel went over the fence and worked his way back around to the house.”

“Does this guard know where she went?”

“I assume so. He went with her.”

“Are you saying that she ran off with this guy?”

Bertone shrugged slightly. “It’s possible. Other members of the guard detail say that the two have flirted in the past.”

Foley thought of all the times Kayla had brushed him off when he tried to flirt. “I can’t believe she’d go for some meaty rent-a-cop. Are you sure that’s all there was going on?”

“Jimmy works for a private company that supplies our security under contract. The background check on him was quite thorough. He’s just a good-looking ten-dollar-an-hour punk. She’s probably screwing him or some other blue-collar stud while we speak.”

“Well, hell.”

Disgusted by Kayla’s lack of taste, Foley threw the MP5A to his shoulder and emptied the rest of the twenty-round magazine into the target. Eleven rounds ripped the paper and disappeared into the downrange berm. Gaping holes opened in and around the silhouette’s head.

Bertone watched without real interest. Then he tripped a switch and retrieved the paper target. He inspected the pattern from Foley’s angry burst and shook his head.

“You’re scattering your shot,” Bertone said.

Foley tapped the three holes in the silhouetted head. “That’s why machine guns were invented. It may not be real efficient, but it sure as hell gets the job done.”

“I’ve sold tens of millions of bullets,” Bertone said, his tone as jaded as his eyes. “I’ve sold tens of thousands of machine guns to fire them. I can assure you that one well-placed shot is worth a hundred badly aimed bullets.”

“Tell it to your pet, Gabriel.”

“He already knows.”

“But he let her get away. Some hit man he is.”

“He was told to acquire, not to kill.”

“Why bother with grabbing her and hiding her?” Foley objected. “All it takes is one shot. I mean, Phoenix has plenty of drive-bys. Nobody would pay much attention to a random hit on the street. It would look like an accident. Hell, I could do it myself.”

“You don’t have what it takes to pull the trigger on a live target.”

Behind his amber shooting glasses, Foley’s narrowed eyes glared at Bertone.

“Somebody has to do it,” Foley said. “If Kayla’s still floating around out there, she could bring you down, and me with you.”

“You, yes. Not me. I am a citizen of the world. In less than an hour I can be on a plane out of the United States, leaving a dozen lawyers to clean up behind me. Can you?”

Foley still had the gun in his hands, muzzle pointed toward the ceiling. He brought the barrel down slowly, letting the black eye of the muzzle slide past Bertone’s mouth. The insult might or might not have been deliberate.

“I thought not,” Bertone said, letting his contempt show.

“One way or another, you’re vulnerable,” Foley said, keeping the muzzle just barely away from Bertone’s face.