“Yes it is.” Bremby beamed. “I’m surprised you recognize it.”

  “I read an article about its computer-assisted scope.” He looked at Dana. “It uses a laser beam to measure distance and the downrange crosswind profile. The crosshairs actually move to where the target will be rather than where it is…”

  “Still isn’t as good as an expert sniper. Couple of years ago, a British Army sniper named Craig Harrison made two hits at a distance of 1.53 miles in Helmand Province, Afghanistan—and he didn’t have a computer assist.”

  “Yeah, but he said that he had perfect shooting conditions: no wind, great visibility and mild weather.”

  Bremby slapped Eric on the shoulder. “I think I’m going to like you. You want to try to fire this thing?”

  “God no.” Eric shook his head. “I’d be terrified of missing and accidently killing someone on the other side of town!”

  “I see.” Bremby nodded and led Eric down one of the aisles. “Let’s find something that you can live with.” He turned to Dana. “You know where the range is—turn on the lights, grab some ammo, and burn some targets.” His grin widened. “We’ll meet you out there in a few minutes.”

  ***

  By the time Flame arrived, Dana had fired three clips—with good results—and Eric had rejected every single pistol Bremby had put in front of him.

  “I’m glad that you’re here,” Dana told her partner as he stepped into the big main room. “This is my new assistant, Eric Bevins.” She turned toward the smaller man. “Eric, this is Randall O’Donnell—but we just call him Flame.”

  Eric stared up at the mountainous figure looming over him. Flame was six feet four inches of hard muscle topped with a set of blue eyes that Eric was sure were staring into his soul.

  He timidly held out his hand.

  “Glad to meet you.” Flame smiled as he shook with the smaller man. “Dana’s told me a lot about you—says you’re really good at what you do.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Do not ever call me sir,” Flame grinned. “I work for a living.”

  “Yes s…” Eric hesitated. “Okay.”

  “Hey Bremby,” Flame held up the closed gun carrier he’d brought with him. “I’ve got something for you to look at.” He unzipped the case and pulled out the shotgun he’d taken from the old man in Iraq. “Check it out.”

  Bremby took the weapon in both hands and bent to study it. “This is a BRNO with factory engraving and custom stock,” he turned it over, inspected the silver plate. “Abu Waliy al Din.” He shrugged. “Don’t know the name.”

  “I do.” Dana, interested for the first time, moved in closer to look at the gun. “Al Din was one of Saddam’s cousins. Not high enough to be in the deck…”

  “He disappeared when our guys drove into Baghdad.” Eric put in. “Nobody knows what happened to him.”

  “Until now,” Bremby smiled. “Right, Flame?”

  “I guess so.” The big man thought about it. “He was about the right age…” Flame shrugged. “Does anybody really care now?”

  “The admiral will want to know.” Dana nodded. “But that can wait; right now we have to find a sidearm for Eric here.”

  “Bremby?” Flame looked at his friend.

  “Don’t look at me.” He held up his hands. “I’ve gone through everything I can think of and he doesn’t want to touch any of them.”

  “He’s gonna work in the office, right Dana?”

  “Yes—but you told me I still had to learn to shoot.”

  “That’s because I knew enough about you to know that you wouldn’t stay in the office if there was something that needed doing.” He looked Eric up and down. “I don’t think that’s going to be the case with Eric here.” He turned to Bremby. “Just pull out something for last resort self-defense.” Flame glanced at Eric again. “How about a heavy-caliber Derringer?”

  “Good idea.” Bremby turned and moved to one of his showcases. “And I have just the thing,” he said, pulling out a box. “This is a Bond Arms Texas Defender Derringer in .357 Remington Magnum.” He pulled the weapon out of the box. It’s got a three-inch barrel and fires two rounds.” He smiled. “Perfect for a last resort.”

  “What’s the range?” Dana stared at the tiny thing.

  “Maybe five feet.” Bremby shrugged. “But at that range, it’ll do some real damage.” He held it out to Eric. “Want to try it?”

  “Okay,” Eric touched the weapon with careful, very tentative fingers. “If I have to carry a weapon, this seems small enough.”

  “While he tries that,” Flame handed the shotgun to Dana. “Why don’t you test this out—I know you were talking about trying skeet.”

  “But this is a valuable weapon—all that inlay…”

  Flame shrugged. “When you come right down to it, it’s only a shotgun that’s been prettied up. Better you have some fun with it than we sell it to some collector.” He grinned. “Take it before Bremby does.”

  “Hey,” their friend grinned. “I resent that remark!”

  “C’mon,” Flame gestured to the back of the building. “Let’s hit the range.”

  It turned out that Dana, once she had learned to lean into the butt plate enough to handle the recoil, was a pretty fair shot with the shotgun. Flame promised that they’d get to a skeet range in the not-too-distant future.

  Eric, on the other hand, turned out to be quite a different story.

  “Just point the Derringer as if you were pointing your index finger,” Bremby told him, positioning the other man’s arm from behind. “When the front and rear sights—I showed you where they were—when they line up, squeeze the trigger…”

  BLAM! The .357 thundered in the confined space.

  “No!” Bremby shook his head. “Don’t pull the trigger! You hit the god-damned ceiling with that round!” He patted the other man on the back. “Try it again—but this time, squ-e-e-ze. You should be surprised when the gun…”

  BLAM! This time Eric dropped the Derringer as it slammed back into the web of his hand.

  “NO!” Bremby screamed the word. “SQUEEZE! Don’t you understand? You’ve got to squeeze the trigger!”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Bremby picked up the Derringer, popped it open, put another cartridge in. “Try again!”

  Eric did try again. And again. And again and again and again. He shot the ceiling, the floor, the right side wall—everything except the target that hung an embarrassing eight feet away. Bremby tried every trick he knew to get the other man to stop yanking the trigger.

  Nothing worked.

  “He’s hopeless,” he told Flame and Dana an hour later. “Some people just can’t be taught to safely shoot a gun.” He gestured toward Eric, saying, “He’s one of them.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We put the Derringer into his desk drawer,” Flame looked at the shaking tech. “With orders that he not touch it unless the world is about to end and he’s humanity’s last hope.” He smiled. “Could you manage that, Eric?”

  “Yes-s…” Eric nodded slowly. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good.” Flame turned toward the front end of the museum. “Now let’s go and get some food—I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starved!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Katelyn regarded the girls around her as she slowly ate the food that had just been pushed into the dormitory room. The Japanese girl wasn’t eating—she’d taken a long time to recover from the punch she’d taken as a “punishment” and had come very close to throwing up everything she’d eaten the day before.

  If it has been a day. Katelyn was well aware that the room they were in had no windows and no clock. Time was problematic here. The only way they had to measure it was the frequency with which food was delivered and the times when the lights were turned down—directing them to their beds.

  They might have been here a week—or only a few days.

  What do they want? Katelyn had been wrestling with that question since she woke up in this room. If they were going to rape us, they’d have done it by now.

  Perhaps the men were going to sell them into prostitution—pretty white women were a valuable commodity in certain parts of the world.

  Then why the Japanese girl? Katelyn glanced to the sobbing figure rolled into a defensive ball. She wouldn’t be worth as much in that sort of market.

  No, these men didn’t collect the girls to sell them. There’s something else. Something they want from us…

  A thought struck her.

  Or something they want from our families.

  She began to think about that as she ate the rest of her ration of food.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Flame hadn’t been too excited about the idea of acting as bodyguard to Eric Forrest’s daughter. Dana had explained the man’s concerns—concerns that hadn’t seemed grounded in any sort of fact.

  Still, a job was a job. And it beats crawling around in the dark waiting for someone to shoot at me. Flame decided to give Gino Gonda another look—he would need someone to spell him at night on this job and he knew he could trust Gino to keep an eye on the girl if that was his assignment.

  He spent the morning piling all the gear he thought he’d need into the trunk and backseat of his new car. Finally finished, he took a moment to step back and admire it. My Dad would have loved this!

  Flame’s father had been a huge Steve McQueen fan and had loved Bullitt, which he considered his hero’s best movie. He’d often told Flame (then known as "Randy") that the car chase in that film was the best one ever made. When he’d returned from his stint in Desert Storm, his dad had purchased a used Mustang to cruise around the Pensacola area. It wasn’t the best car he’d ever owned—but it was the one he had the most fun in.

  Flame had been planning to buy a car since he’d won all that money in Atlantic City. He’d finally decided that instead of getting some tarted-up plastic and carbon fiber “supercar” he’d honor his father by purchasing an all-American muscle car.

  He’d found a garage in Texas that specialized in restorations of classic cars and paid them a ton of money to replicate McQueen’s green Mustang fromBullitt. It had been delivered while Flame was in Iraq and he hadn’t gotten a chance to try it out.

  Until now.

  Smiling all the way, he picked Gino up and headed for I-95. With luck, limited traffic and no interference from patrolling officers of the various states they’d have to pass through, they’d arrive in Scarsdale—wherever that was—in time for dinner. Afterward he’d have plenty of time to handle introductions with the Forrest family.

  Flame figured he could charm the daughter into accepting him as her bodyguard. That shouldn’t be too big a problem. He just had to be careful to leave it at that.

  She’s a client, he told himself. Not a target of opportunity.

  He resolved to remember that—and pressed down on the gas pedal. He blew past a Jaguar sedan, a huge grin on his face. Yeah, he thought, my dad would have loved this car…

  ***

  “Come in, Mr.…” Eric Forrest gestured the two men into his rather large home in Scarsdale, which Flame had learned on the drive up, is about forty minutes north of New York City.

  “Just call me Flame, sir,” the big redhead smiled at the man. “It’s pretty much what everyone calls me.” He smiled and gestured toward the top of his head. “I’m sure you can understand why.” He nodded toward Gonda. “And this is Gino—he’ll spell me at night—if your daughter…” He glanced at the girl standing near her mother. “Doesn’t object.”

  Flame was surprised to see Mrs. Forrest frown at his statement. She’s got problems with her daughter, he realized. I wonder why.

  He looked the two women over. Maybe because she’s always been used to being the most beautiful woman in the room and now has to contend with her not-so-little girl.

  Mrs. Forrest was, in fact, extremely beautiful—and graceful besides. Flame knew from Dana’s briefing package that she had been a swimsuit model while still in her teens. I must have seen those issues, he thought. Everyone on base checked them out.

  He didn’t remember her, though—which was a shame. She’s as good-looking a woman as I’ve come across. He let his eyes rest on hers for a moment. And she knows it—maybe too well.

  Kimberly, the daughter, shared her mother’s looks in almost every detail.

  She’s got a wonderful body, Flame thought, lean, shapely, and so vital and alive! He ran his eyes between the two. She doesn’t quite have the grace thing down yet—but that will come.

  Both women had golden hair—Mrs. Forrest wore hers long, emphasizing her graceful neck and patrician features. Kimberly was at an age where she felt the need to portray herself as tough and independent—so she had cut her hair in a kind of pixie cut that emphasized her eyes—an emphasis amplified by a single line of bright red on one side.

  Mrs. Forrest was wearing a nicely cut blouse and pants combination that showed that she maintained her own figure while not emphasizing it.

  Kimberly wasn’t content with hints—she wore a cut-off t-shirt and form-fitting jeans that emphasized her perky breasts and perfectly formed rear end.

  Flame smiled at the teenager. I’ll bet she’s a bit of a prick-tease. He could handle that—handle it and return it in spades…She’s a client, he reminded himself.Act like a professional!

  As Flame's eyes flashed over Kimberly, her own eyes were studying him. Her father had tried to get her to accept a bodyguard before, but every man he’d brought in to show her had looked like a slab of granite—bulky and hard and ugly.

  This man was different—different in ways that she couldn’t have described but that were causing all kinds of reactions in her nubile young body.

  God, she thought to herself. Look at the size of him! She ran her gaze up and down his muscled form. And that hair!

  The man beside him wasn’t bad either. Gino Gonda was shorter than Flame—just under six feet to the bigger man’s six four—but he had raven-black hair, dark, intense eyes and a slimly-muscled body that matched up well with Flame’s—and was far beyond anything Kimberly had seen at school…

  “Kim,” her father smiled as he saw the look in her eyes. “This is Flame, the one I told you about.”

  The big redhead smiled and held out a hand, which she numbly shook, fully aware of just how sweaty her own hand had suddenly become.

  “And Gino.”

  Gonda leaned forward, his eyes and smile a bit more predatory than Flame’s, his hand holding hers just a beat longer.

  “They’re going to keep an eye on you for a week or so—if that’s okay.”

  “I…” Kimberly swallowed hard. “I guess it’ll be okay.” She looked at the two men. “Keep an eye on me how? I mean, are you going to want to come into the school? I don’t know…”

  “We won’t be that obtrusive,” Flame’s voice caught her by surprise. It was softer than she’d imagined, with a touch of a southern accent and more education than any of the other bodyguards her father had brought into the house. “We will want to accompany you to and from your school—but we won’t go inside—if you like, we won’t even get out of the car.”

  “I walk to school,” she said, and licked dry lips. “It’s only a couple of blocks from here and I prefer not to add to the destruction of the planet by filling the air with more pollution.” God that sounded pretentious, she realized as soon as the words were out of her mouth. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a total asshole!

  “Walking is cool,” Flame smiled. “In fact, I’d prefer it.” He looked at her. “Is there a place to run around here? I like to put in a couple of miles every morning.”

  “Sure,” Kimberly nodded quickly. “There are a couple of really pretty jogging paths. Maybe I could show you?”

  “We’ll talk about that,” Flame nodded and smiled. “Right now, I’d like you to take this.” He pulled a small device from his pocket and held it out to her.

  “What is it?” She held it in her palm, studying it.

  “Call it a panic button.” Flame touched the red square on the face. “Press this and whichever one of us is on duty will come running.”

  “With a gun?”

  “With a gun.”

  “I hate guns.” Kimberly looked sour. “Do you have to have one with you?”

  “Kimberly.” Flame leaned close. “There’s no reason to hate guns. Weapons are just tools—like a hammer or a screwdriver. It’s not dangerous in hands that know how to use it.” He shrugged. “Gino and I,” he hesitated. “We’ve spent a big part of our lives learning the proper way to use such things.”

  “Do you have a really big gun?” She looked into his deep blue eyes. “Like Dirty Harry.”

  “The forty-four Magnum is a bit too much for this job.” Flame grinned. “If I missed, the bullet might go right through a wall and hurt someone inside.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” He nodded slowly. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt—but I will use a gun to keep you safe if I have to. It’s why I’m here after all.”

  “Okay…”

  “So,” Flame raised an eyebrow. “Are we hired?”

  “I guess.” Kimberly looked down at the floor for a minute. “If you promise…”

  “Promise what?”

  She looked up and gave Flame a sudden smile, one that softened her looks—made her seem even younger than she really was. She’s really something, he thought. One of the best-looking women I’ve ever seen. He smiled. Someday she’ll realize just how good-looking—then she’ll really be a handful!

  “Promise that you’ll walk me all the way to the door of the school.” Her smile widened. “I want to show you to my friends—they’ll be so jealous!”

  “Okay,” Flame held out his hand. “I think I can do that.”

  Kimberly came a little closer to take his hand—and held it a bit tighter than was necessary, the tip of her tongue licking her lips as she did so.