"Then we'll need to stop at the store. Third, watch the balls."

  "Watch them? You mean stare at them?"

  "I mean be careful. They still hurt."

  "Would it be okay if I stretched them out and tied them around your leg? I'm into that."

  Tequila did that staring thing again. Slightly bored seemed to be his only expression.

  "It was a joke," Hammett said.

  "Fourth, stop trying to tell jokes. It isn't one of your strengths. And fifth, I don't mind getting a little rough, but if at any time I fear for my life, I will snap your neck. And I'll do it right this time."

  A shiver ran through Hammett, and she crossed her legs. "This is going to sound crazy, but that might be the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me."

  "It does sound crazy. It sounds very crazy. Because you're very crazy." He leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and sighed. "But, as the saying goes, when in Rome…"

  * * *

  They searched three stores before finding the extra-large prophylactics. Tequila bought two boxes of three.

  Hammett approached sex the same way she approached everything in life; openly and fully, without holding back. But there was an obvious difference. Her everyday interactions with the human race were normally selfish. On good days, Hammett did what she wanted, took what she wanted, lived how she wanted, and to hell with anyone in her way. On bad days, she freely admitted enjoying hurting her fellow human beings. It was a rush, and they deserved it. But Hammett had a different approach to making love. A kid-in-the-sandbox approach, where the other kid had some cool toys, so the best way to play with them was to share your toys.

  Generosity was a philosophy that never carried over to Hammett's everyday life. But in bed it suited her well. So when they got back to her suite at the Parco di Neroni, the first thing Hammett did was get Tequila's pants off and take him in her mouth.

  "Damn," he said. "How about a kiss, first?"

  "Want me to stop and kiss you?"

  He shut up after that.

  Flaccid, Tequila didn't meet the expectations she had when they were condom shopping. He was circumcised and average, and the only thing mildly interesting about him was he manscaped. Not shaved like she was, but obviously trimmed.

  His body, as Hammett expected, was ridiculous. He looked like one of those He-Man action figures, every muscle defined and exaggerated. The guy had very little body fat, and though he was nearly eligible for AARP membership he had the physique of a man half his age.

  As advised, she avoided his testicles, but she paid eager and vigorous attention to his cock, licking, pulling, nipping, and sucking him to full length.

  A length that was average.

  But his width…

  Wow.

  Hammett relaxed her jaw and throat, using a combination of mouth and fist. She deliberately made herself slow down, savoring, waiting for the inevitable moment when he began to thrust at her.

  But Tequila remained motionless. A statue.

  She slowed down even more, doing her best to torture him. Moving millimeter by millimeter, going up to his tip, withdrawing completely, then staring up at him and making him wait before pursing her lips and letting him penetrate her mouth.

  He still didn't buck.

  Hammett changed tactics, loosening her grip, widening her mouth. The deep, hard blowjob became a sloppy tease, and she didn't give him any friction, any pressure.

  Tequila placed a hand on her head, and Hammett expected him to grip her hair and guide her rhythm.

  Instead, he gently caressed her scalp.

  Determined to make him lose control, she gripped his butt, urging him into her while barely touching him with her lips and tongue. It was the most she'd ever teased a man, and Hammett was surprised by how turned on she became. The lighter she touched him, the wetter she got. And though his cock began to twitch, moving up and down like it was doing push-ups, he still didn't thrust into her mouth.

  Hammett switched from gentle to firm, sucking as hard as she could, as fast as she could. She kept it up for a full minute, then came to a dead stop, holding him in her mouth, staring up into his eyes. She waited for him to move, softly bathing his underside with her tongue, but refusing to continue until he showed her how much he wanted her.

  Tequila pulled out. Before Hammett could utter a word of protest, he bent down and lifted her as if she weighed nothing, then threw her across the room and onto the bed. As she bounced on the mattress, Tequila crawled between her legs and tugged off her pants, then her panties.

  When his tongue touched her, Hammett squeezed her eyes shut. But, like him, Hammett refused to move. Two could play that game.

  Tequila didn't make it easy. He licked her as slowly as she'd done to him, slowly and softly. Like lapping the dew off a rose petal. And he intentionally avoided her clit, circling but not touching it, round and round.

  Hammett clutched the sheets and clenched her buttocks, but kept her hips still.

  After several agonizing minutes, he finally touched her there. So gentle it made her gasp. She ground her teeth, forcing herself not to move, not to press against his teasing tongue. She had just as much control as he did. She was the master of her own body. She wouldn't break first.

  Then he slipped a finger deep inside her and began to lick her hard, and she broke first.

  Hammett moaned deep in her throat and grabbed his head, pressing him into her, bucking against his face as her orgasm built and peaked. Tequila worked his finger in and out, using a beckoning motion, and after she came once she climaxed again, harder, her cries loud and involuntary.

  She reached out, needing a cock, and then he was twisting around, hands on her hips, and she was straddling his face in a sixty-nine. Hammett devoured him as she ground against his mouth, and he finally began to thrust, matching her rhythm. She shuddered, coming again, screaming with him in her mouth, and once more he was flipping her around, on top of her, hands on her shoulders.

  Hammett locked her ankles around his back, urging him inside. He teased her with the tip, rubbing it against her. Then he stopped.

  Putting on the goddamn condom.

  "Hurry," she urged.

  Ready as she was, when Tequila thrust inside her Hammett felt like she was being split open. It was almost pain, but not quite, and she liked that a lot.

  She liked it too much.

  Meeting his thrusts, Hammett stared into Tequila's intense gaze.

  He hates me.

  He thinks I'm a psycho.

  He's afraid of me.

  If he wanted to snap my neck right now, he could.

  Easily.

  That's turning me on.

  He's right.

  I'm a freak.

  I'm a monster.

  "Harder!" she said through clenched teeth.

  He pounded into her, increasing his force and his speed.

  "Harder, you lame fuck!"

  She slapped him. Hard.

  Watched his eyes go cold.

  I want him to hurt me.

  I want him to kill me.

  I am psychotic.

  I'm an aberration.

  And…

  And…?

  And… I'm okay with that.

  Hammett grabbed his wrists, guided them to her throat.

  "Squeeze!" she ordered.

  He applied a light pressure. Much too light.

  I know I'm fucked up.

  I don't deserve to live

  Kill me.

  Kill me!

  She reached out, grabbed his forearm where she'd bitten down to his bone, and squeezed.

  "Fucking strangle me!"

  Tequila's fingers clenched, cutting off her air supply. Hammett choked, but no sound came out. Darkness began to creep into the edges of her vision, growing until she could only see pinpoints of light. She reached up, found Tequila's chest, squeezed his nipples hard as she could.

  Tequila groaned, his cock twitching as he came, his hands squeezing her neck even tighter.

  Hammett began to black out.

  I'm going to die.

  I'm going to die!

  She managed a strained smile as her orgasm shook the bed.

  * * *

  Over the course of the night, Tequila used all six condoms. They'd done it every way possible, and a few ways she'd never considered. Besides being built like a brick shithouse, Tequila was as flexible as she was.

  Hammett wondered why she'd never been with a gymnast before. She'd been seriously missing out.

  In the morning, she got up to pee and caught herself in the mirror. Along with the inevitable bruises on her body where the Kevlar had stopped Tequila's bullets, her neck was black and blue. In the shape of his hands. She touched the mark, pressed, feeling how tender it was.

  Tequila was sprawled out on the bed, one leg dangling over the edge. She could grab her gun, put two in his head before he even woke up.

  The thought excited her.

  I'm so messed up.

  "Hey, lover," she said.

  He opened his eyes. Stared at her.

  Hammett saw emptiness there. The same sort of emptiness she saw when she looked at herself.

  One of us is going to kill the other before we get out of Rome.

  But I have no idea who it is going to be.

  Hammett smiled. "I'll give you fifteen thousand dollars to help me assassinate a guy."

  Tequila blinked. Then he said, "Okay."

  Tequila

  They ate breakfast at a nearby café, in relative silence. Hammett wore an open collared shirt, and Tequila could see his handprints on her neck. He didn't feel bad about it. He'd simply done what she wanted. It hadn't excited him.

  Or had it?

  Tequila knew Hammett was crazy-pants. He also knew his own shortcomings, especially in the empathy department. So what made her different than him?

  Was there actually a difference?

  The sex had been good. Intense. Like a decent work out. There had been no emotional connection. No shared feelings. When Tequila had been with Hammett's sister, it had been warm and playful. Fucking Hammett was a lot like fighting Hammett. Which, truth told, had its own appeal.

  Tequila spent a lot of time alone. Too much time, maybe. The only thing that prevented him from becoming a full-fledged hermit was that he forced himself to jog through the city once a week. He never interacted with anyone. But at least he saw people.

  Hammett had been the first human being he'd touched in almost a year.

  After breakfast, she suggested visiting Trevi Fountain. They took a cab. Tequila wasn't impressed. Buckingham Fountain, in his home town of Chicago, was much grander, much nicer.

  They watched more than a dozen people throw coins in the water, making wishes. Tequila always wondered about that. Did anyone actually believe their wishes would come true? Were people that naïve? Life wasn't about hopes and dreams. It was about surviving. And the only one you could rely on was yourself. Throwing a coin in a fountain, wishing upon a star, praying to some imaginary god, it was all childish fantasy.

  If some sort of god did exist, he didn't care about humanity. And he certainly didn't grant wishes.

  They killed time in local shops, browsing through book stores and markets and clothing retailers. The only time Hammett seemed animated was when she saw a purse she liked. Something bulky and ugly and overpriced, a gold label on it boasting the designer's name. She bought it with cash, and wore it on her arm like it had grown there naturally.

  She didn't mention any details about her mission. He didn't press her.

  After lunch at a sidewalk café—Rome was full of them—they went to the gun show at the Boscolo Exedra hotel. Displays were set up in one of the banquet rooms. Tequila tried to engage Hammett in discussion about various exotic firearms. There was an SPP-1 underwater pistol, which shot 40mm bolts. A Medusa M47 revolver capable of firing twenty-five different caliber cartridges. A LeMat pistol from the Civil War, which fired cap and ball from the upper barrel and shotgun pellets from the barrel beneath it. A 9mm belt fed Italian Sosso handgun. A Colt Defender Mach 1 eight barreled shotgun. All fascinating and intricately designed weapons, and Tequila couldn't recall when, if ever, he'd talked so much.

  Guns were his passion. Perhaps his only one. But Hammett didn't seem interested in any of the weapons until they came to an OTs-38 Stechkin silent revolver.

  "You can't silence a revolver," she said. "Gas escapes from the cylinder. Besides, no true silencer exists. Suppressors only reduce noise, they don't silence it. This gun doesn't even have a threaded barrel to attach a suppressor."

  "When the gun is fired, the cylinder forms a seal with the barrel, containing all the gases," Tequila explained. "Nothing needs to be screwed onto the barrel. Look at the cartridges."

  Tequila pointed to a full box in the corner of the display. They were shaped like lipstick tubes with tapered tops. The bullets were sheathed inside the brass, rather than protruding from the top, which allowed for a perfect seal between cartridge and cylinder. Enclosed, sound had nowhere to escape, making this the most silent firearm ever created.

  "It makes the same amount of noise dry firing as it does to fire a round," he said. "No muzzle flash, either."

  "Gotta hand it to modern technology."

  "It's not the first silenced revolver. The Nagant M1895 beat it by over eighty years. They have one over there."

  They found the Nagant behind glass. It had that old-time cowboy look to it, and like the Stechkin there was a box of ammo, but the box was wooden and looked a lot older than the shiny brass it held inside.

  "No sound?" Hammett asked.

  "It needs a silencer extension," he pointed to the tube in the rear of the case, "but it's just as quiet."

  "Where's the Pistola con Caricato you're interested in?"

  They wandered around a bit before they saw the auction items for sale. The Caricato was truly a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Three barrels, with a gigantic cylinder that held eighteen rounds. It had an almost futuristic look to it, which fascinated Tequila because it was an antique.

  "It's too old," Hammett said. "And the caliber is really small."

  Tequila didn't reply. Trying to convince Hammett she wasn't funny was a long walk down Futility Road, and discouragement seemed to egg her on.

  "Did you know caricato is Italian for loaded?" she asked.

  "I don't know Italian."

  "I'm fluent in fourteen languages."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "That doesn't include Morse code, sign language, or semaphore."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "Do you know what semaphore is?"

  "No."

  "It's a form of telegraphy using flags to give signals."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "I also know JavaScript, C#, and Pascal."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "They're programming languages."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "Did you ever read Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People?"

  "No."

  "I know. It's obvious."

  "Mmm-hmm."

  Tequila studied a display of Elisha Collier firearms. Collier invented one of the very first flintlock revolvers, back in 1814. Few fields had as much innovation and artistry as weapon design. Men didn't just kill one another. They were constantly inventing new ways to kill one another. And some of those ways were beautiful. Much more impressive than the useless, gaudy Trevi Fountain.

  "Didn't you come to Rome to meet Emilio Ghisoni?" Hammett asked after a minute of silence.

  "He died in April."

  "You're a few months late."

  "There are supposed to be some of his prototypes here. He was working on a new design. Like some of his others, it has the barrel at six o'clock on the cylinder rather than twelve, to temper tip-up from blowback. The recoil goes directly into the shooter's arm, rather than the wrist."

  "Mmm-hmm," Hammett said.

  Touché.

  They eventually found the Ghisoni exhibit. There was a model of his last design, called the Rhino. It was similar in appearance to the Unica 6, but not semi-automatic. There was a card next to it.

  "Can you read the card?" Tequila asked Hammett.

  "I can. Because I know Italian."

  Tequila waited. Hammett stayed quiet.

  "Can you read it to me?" he finally asked.

  "Designed by Emilio Ghisoni and architect Antonio Cudazzo, innovative barrel placement to reduce recoil, blah blah blah, ergonomic design, blah blah, says it's slated to go into production by Chiappa Firearms."

  Production. It was a gorgeous weapon, and Tequila was pleased that one day he'd be able to own a few of them.

  Hammett said she needed to find a toilet, and Tequila wandered into the dealer room. He found a book about Sir Hiram Stevens Maxim, a fascinating man who invented the recoil-operated machine gun. But it was in Italian, and he doubted Hammett would read it to him. There were no guns directly for sale, since laws in Italy were stricter than in America. If he won the Caricato auction, it would involve reams of paperwork, and probably a bribe for him to leave with it. If caught carrying in Italy without a valid license, Tequila would go to jail.

  Of course, to catch him, they'd have to take away his guns. He'd feel bad for the cop who tried.

  Actually, he probably wouldn't.

  Hammett wandered back after almost twenty minutes. She was looking happy with herself. Maybe she slit someone's throat in the shitter.

  "We're going to pay our target a visit," Hammett said.

  "I'm staying for the auction."

  "I talked to the auctioneers and pre-empted it." She reached into her new handbag and pulled out the butt of a weapon. It was unmistakably the Caricato.

  Tequila felt a tiny flare of annoyance, which he squelched. He checked behind Hammett, searching the room for any disturbances.

  Hammett studied his face. "You think I killed someone and took it."

  "Do you have a receipt?"

  She made a seriously? face, then pulled out a piece of paper. It was hand-scrawled Italian, but Tequila made out the words Pistola di Caricato along with a number: 14,000 Euro.

  "A little over twenty thousand US," she said. "You can work out the difference in bed."

  "I can work it out in cash."

  Hammett narrowed her eyes. "I don't know why I expected you to be excited about this. For some reason I was thinking you'd give me a big smile and a hug. Maybe even thank me."