“Good shooting, I said.”

“Thanks.” Vaughn put the black semiautomatic pistol down on the bench in front of him as the instructor reeled the target back in. The eight shots were grouped tight in the silhouette’s chest.

The shooting wasn’t competition-level but he was satisfied.

The idea that Charles Vaughn would be spending any time at all thinking about grain weight of bullets and the advantages of a SIG-Sauer safety (a thumb lever) versus a Glock (a second trigger) was hilarious. Here was a man who made his living with credit reports and product-spec sheets, and yet he was spending his lunch hour shooting at images of Bin Laden and John Q. Thug.

But even more ironic was that Charles Vaughn had turned into a pretty damn good shot.

At first he’d held the gun stiffly, in a way that seemed to mimic what he’d seen actors do in the movies.

“Now, sir,” Larry Bolling had explained at the first lesson, “you might not want to do that.”

“What’s that?”

“Hold your weapon that way.”

“Okay. Sure. Why not?”

“Because when you pull the trigger, the slide-See that part there-is gonna fly back at, oh, about a thousand miles an hour, and it’ll take a portion of your thumb with it. What you do is just rest one hand on the other. Sorta like this.”

“This?”

“That’s right. Now let’s go put some holes in a target.”

Well, at first he hadn’t put a lot of holes in anything but the bullet trap at the back of the range. But today he’d been rewarded for his skill.

Good shooting…

After the lunch-hour lesson today, Vaughn dismantled the gun, then cleaned, reassembled, and reloaded it.

He found Bolling in the front office, hunched over some papers. He motioned Vaughn to take a chair.

“So, I get my ticket?” the businessman asked.

“Not quite yet, sir.”

Vaughn frowned. He’d passed all the tests with perfect scores. He’d also passed the background checks. He’d attended all of the video and live-instruction sessions, had done all his homework.

“I thought that was it.”

“Nope,” Bolling explained. “There’s one more thing that I include in my classes.”

“Okay, what’s that?”

“You need to answer a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why do you want a carry permit? You never told me.”

“I’m a wealthy businessman. I’m concerned about my family. There’s a lot of crime in Boston.”

“That’s all true-at least I can attest to the last one of those, and the other two are no doubt right, as well. But why don’t you tell me the real reason?”

Vaughn could only laugh. He shook his head and explained about the attack on St. Patrick’s Day.

“Okay, sir, I understand that was upsetting. But that’s not a good reason to carry a weapon.”

“But he was dangerous.”

“Let me ask: That was six weeks ago, give or take; you seen hide or hair of that man since then?”

“I don’t think so,” Vaughn said defensively.

A nod toward the pistol on the businessman’s hip. “You’ve done good in the course. You know safety and you’ve got every legal right to carry that. My advice to you is to take it home, put it in a lockbox, and leave it there until the next time you come here to have some fun. Then take it home again and put it back in the box. You get my drift?”

“But-”

“Listen to me.”

Vaughn looked up into the man’s steely eyes. He nodded.

“Most people, in their entire lives, there’s a one in a million chance that there’d be a good reason to draw their weapon on the street, and even less of a chance they ought to use it. The absolute best possible thing you can do in a confrontation is turn and run like a rabbit, calling for help at the top of your lungs. I’ll tell you from my heart that that’s exactly what I’d do.”

“Run.”

“As fast as your feet can carry you. And if you’re with your grandmother, or your child, you sling ‘em over your shoulder and carry ‘em with you… A gun’s for that one time in your life when you’re trapped, there’s no help around, and your assailant intends to kill you. That situation in Boston, naturally it upset you, and no doubt that man was a solid-gold son of a bitch. And you’re thinking you were a coward. But I’m telling you, it’s braver to live with a feeling like that than to go looking for trouble.”

“Well, duly noted,” Vaughn said. “I appreciate your comments.”

“There, I’ve said my piece.” Bolling produced a temporary permit. “Good luck to you, sir.”

Leaving the gun shop and range, returning to his car, Charles Vaughn was thinking about Bolling’s words. But they didn’t stay with him long. He was aware of a curious feeling. It was as if something fundamental in his life had changed. He thought back to the incident in Boston and found, to his surprise, his gut didn’t twist, his heart didn’t pound quite so fast. The anger-at the attacker, and at himself for his cowardice-was almost gone.

Charles Vaughn walked to his car and headed back to work, buoyed by a confidence that he hadn’t felt for months. Maybe even years.

At five P.M. that evening Jamie Feldon sat in the front seat of his Toyota, listening to the radio and watching people leave the office of NES Computer Products.

He didn’t know if Charles Vaughn was a workaholic-a lot of times those Internet guys really put in the hours-but Jamie would stay as long as he needed to in order to see the guy. Beside him was a grilled chicken sandwich from McDonald’s, an iced tea, and a bottle of Champagne whose name he couldn’t pronounce, which meant that it had to be good.

He ate his dinner, listened to the radio, and thought about the other people on his list.

Then, at seven P.M., Jamie saw Charles Vaughn leave by the front door, look around, and then head toward the parking garage.

Jamie took a deep breath.

Making amends.

A new life.

He grabbed the Champagne, stepped out of the car, and started up the sidewalk to the garage.

Approaching his car, Charles Vaughn examined the paint job. The body shop had completely erased the damage from when the psycho had keyed his car outside Faneuil Hall.

Just like the gun on his hip had erased the psychic scarring.

He no longer felt defenseless, no longer felt scared. In fact, despite the gun instructor’s advice (which Vaughn thought was a bit hypocritical, considering his job), he was hoping the man would make his move.

I’m ready for you.

It was then that he heard a snap-or some sound-not far away. He froze and looked around. The garage was deserted here; after his lesson at the gun shop he’d returned to find parking only on the fifth floor. His was the only car here now. He shifted his briefcase to his left hand. His pistol was only a few inches away from his right.

But, he told himself, how would the punk know where he worked? He might’ve been staking out Lincoln, but here? Impossible.

Though if the guy was really determined, it wouldn’t be impossible to find out his company. Vaughn squinted, scanning the floor behind him. Was that the shadow of someone on the far stairwell? He couldn’t tell.

His heart beating quickly, he remembered the man’s face, remembered the anger in his eyes, the smell of liquor, the uncontrolled hands as they gripped Vaughn’s lapels.

A chill tickled his spine. But it wasn’t fear; it was exhilaration.

Keeping his right hand free, Vaughn set his briefcase down and fished for his car keys, while he scanned the garage in the direction he believed the sound had come from.

The sound again.

He hit the unlock button on the key. But still didn’t get inside. He tapped the gun with his right palm.