"Thank you for buying the gun I wanted to buy?"

  "That's a pessimistic interpretation. There could have been some high roller here who would have outbid you."

  "There was. It was you. But you didn't outbid me. You did it behind my back."

  Tequila contemplated taking the gun right there. Hammett wanted him to kill someone for it. One hard punch in her trachea and mission accomplished. He could FedEx the Caricato to himself and head home.

  Hammett took a step backward. "I don't like the way you're looking at me."

  "Really?"

  "And I'm also a little aroused. Is that crazy?"

  "Everything about you is crazy."

  "Our deal hasn't really changed. If you want the gun, you'll help me. Are you in or out?"

  Tequila didn't hesitate. "I'm in."

  Hammett

  They rented a Vespa—easy to procure because what kind of stupido idiota would want to ride around on a scooter in the winter—and Hammett let Tequila drive. She was a little concerned that if he rode bitch, he'd slit her throat and take the Caricato.

  Also—and Hammett was reluctant to admit it to herself—she kind of liked riding behind him. Her arms around his waist, snuggling her face against his back. Hammett slept with a lot of men, but they weren't the sort of guys who cuddled, and the affair usually ended with them dying, mostly by her hand. So she soaked up a cheap opportunity to hold him while shouting over the engine and wind which way he needed to turn and what exit to take.

  They eventually arrived on a winding road three kilometers away from the Centro di Ricerca Della Difesa, taking the bike off road and finding an elevation in the woods of the Riserva statale Tenuta di Castelporziano. The air was clean and cold, the breeze coming in from the west, prickling her cheeks. Hammett hung her Leopold scope around her neck on a lanyard, and climbed a pine tree. She was nimble on the branches, but Tequila climbed like he'd been raised by apes, beating her to the top by a good five seconds.

  When Hammett found a comfortable perch, she handed Tequila the optics and pointed to the tall, white building in the distance, surrounded by forest preserve.

  "The Center for Disease Research. Our target is Dr. Lucio Damiano, the preeminent scientist in the field of biological weapons."

  Tequila squinted through the scope. "I count ten guards on the perimeter."

  "There are at least ten more in the surrounding woods. With dogs."

  "And inside?"

  "My intel is limited to hacking their payroll account, but there are at least thirty. All armed."

  "Beretta ARX-160s?" He was indicating the carry of the outside guards, state-of-the-art machine pistols with impressive range, accuracy, and firepower.

  "Hundred round mags and underslung 40mm grenade launchers."

  "Seems like overkill."

  Hammett blew out a stiff, cool breath, the vapor billowing around her like an exhaled cigarette. "They run a P4 containment lab on site. Enough pathogens to wipe out Europe. Maybe the world."

  "The uniforms are army."

  "It's a government facility."

  "Nearest military base?"

  "Eighteen kilometers north."

  Tequila let out a deep breath of his own. "This is a hard target."

  "No shit."

  He put down the scope, but continued to stare at the building. "Break in."

  "Twenty-four hour surveillance, cameras, electric fence. It's doable if I had a month to plan, and a full team. I've got three days, and you."

  "What's the rush?"

  "Some of us can't take time off to fly up to Rome to look at fancy guns."

  "Stealth, then. Grab someone's ID."

  "Retina scans on all doors. You know those movies where they cut out a person's eye and hold it to the scanner?"

  Tequila nodded.

  Hammett made a face. "That doesn't actually work."

  "What if you cut the whole head off?"

  She smirked. "I like how you think. But retina scans identify blood vessel patterns. When there isn't blood pumping, they don't scan."

  "Is that so?"

  "Trust me. I've tried."

  "Hostage," he said. "Grab a guard."

  "I don't like the odds of a full-on assault. Too many guns. And there's the dog problem. I can use a man as a human shield to protect me from bullets. Doesn't work with canines. They'll get you when a bullet won't."

  "Shoot them."

  What didn't this lunkhead understand? "I don't shoot dogs. And if I see you shoot any dog, I'll end you."

  If Tequila was bothered by her threat he didn't show it. "Does Dr. Damiano ever come out?"

  "If he's on schedule, he'll be leaving work in about two hours. Armed escort, three cars. They're in the garage on the northeast side."

  "Snipe him."

  "I tried, from here. I used an MK 211."

  "Fifty cal?"

  "Armor piercing tungsten core. It can punch through a tank, but the car window stopped the rounds cold. Best guess, the glass contains smart fluid; non-Newtonian liquid that becomes a solid when hit with sufficient force."

  "Tires?"

  "Solid rubber."

  "Hard target."

  "You said that. I said no shit. Were you here when that happened?"

  Tequila took another look through the optics. "How fast is the response time?"

  "After I took my shots, there were three hundred troops in the area within four minutes."

  "Fast."

  "And they moved in a dragnet. Fast, and organized."

  "And now that you've tried once, they're on high alert."

  "There's that."

  "How about arson. Explosives."

  "This facility is biosafety level 4, Tequila. Meant to contain the worst diseases known to man. Nasty shit that can't be treated or vaccinated against, like Ebola virus. The building is designed to withstand fires, explosions, terrorist attacks, even earthquakes. And once there is a threat, it goes into lockdown. Reinforced steel doors. Nothing gets in or out."

  "How about his house?"

  The horse was following Hammett to the water.

  Now to get him to drink.

  "His house's security makes this building look easy. Big estate. Guards. Cameras. Motion detectors everywhere. I couldn't even get on his property. This guy is protected better than most world leaders. If you like, we could check it. Maybe you could spot something I missed."

  "Does he take the same route home?"

  "I've followed him three times. Route varied each time."

  "Does he stick to a routine?"

  Hammett hid her smile.

  Slurp up, Mr. Ed.

  "Usually, he doesn't go directly home. He stops at an underground gambling den. Mafia owned. Near Circus Maximus."

  "Have you been inside?"

  "Yes. It's open to the public, for a price."

  "Why didn't you kill him then?"

  "Too many bodyguards, too many guns. It would be like trying to rob a bar where off-duty cops hang out."

  "Your blow dart."

  "That has a three meter range. Damiano was too far away, and his security detail wouldn't let me get close enough."

  "Did you try your feminine charms?"

  "Both of them. He had some young bimbo on his arm. Jailbait young."

  If Hammett hadn't already had two good reasons to want to kill Damiano, that would have been justification enough.

  "Sneak in a gun and shoot him."

  "Handguns and knives are allowed. It's a Cosa Nostra hang out. They figure if everyone is armed, everyone behaves. But if I shot Damiano, I'd have twenty slugs in my body before I could take two steps."

  "So you can't get close, and a gun would attract attention."

  She nodded. "We'd need to be quiet. Very quiet. From a distance."

  Hammett watched him work it out.

  "The Stechkin revolver we saw," he said. "Or the Nagant."

  "I was thinking the same thing."

  Slurp slurp.

  "We could go back to the exhibit, make some offers. But it will be pricey."

  Too pricey, Hammett thought. But instead she said, "We need to make a stop at my hotel, then we can swing by the gun exhibit again."

  Tequila stared at her. This guy was really tough to read.

  "If you want to leave, leave," she pressed. "We'll say our goodbyes right now. No hard feelings."

  "I'm in. But if you fuck me…"

  I already did, Hammett thought.

  She meant it in several different ways.

  Tequila

  After a quick stop at Hammett's hotel, Tequila took her back to the Boscolo Exedra. He waited on the scooter while she went in and bought the Stechkin and Nagant. It only took five minutes. Then she directed him to a large park, the Villa Borghese gardens. Tequila parked on the street and they walked among the trees. The snow from the previous day had melted—apparently it didn't snow in Rome often—but it was still chilly enough that the park was empty. They treaded in, several acres deep, until Tequila couldn't see Rome anymore. Only trees and long shadows as the sun waved goodbye to the day. Through a clearing, across a pond, was the Temple of Aesculapius, but Tequila only had eyes for the bag Hammett carried. The designer bag with the weapons in it.

  They walked into a clearing, and Hammett set the bag on the grass.

  "What's the range on this thing?" Hammett said, pulling out the Stechkin and weighing it in her palm.

  "Everything I've read says it's accurate to fifty yards. Assuming it functions and the sights are adjusted."

  She planted one foot in front of the other and brought her left hand up under her right in a Weaver stance, taking aim at a pine tree twenty yards in the distance. When she squeezed the trigger, the gun made a faint click and a small divot appeared on the trunk. It was even quieter than Tequila expected. In a crowded room, no one would hear the shot.

  Hammett smiled wide. "That is too cool."

  She fired again, the second shot an inch from the first. Then she changed to a one-handed grip and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. All five of her shots were within the radius of a silver dollar.

  Very good shooting.

  She handed the weapon to Tequila, butt first. He opened the cylinder, and it swung out at a horizontal forty-five degree angle. It had no ejector rod, and he pulled out the moon clip and five spent cartridges with his fingernails, then popped in a new one Hammett handed over.

  Such an ingenious design.

  So beautiful.

  So horrible.

  His thumb found the safety—an unusual feature on a revolver—and he cocked the hammer, aimed, and tested to make sure the gun didn't fire. It didn't. He used an isosceles stance, feet parallel to his shoulder rather than one in front of the either.

  The first round he squeezed off hit the tree truck six inches above Hammett's grouping. Tequila fired four more times, making his original hole larger with each shot. Just like hammering a nail.

  "Jesus," Hammett said. "When you go to the firing range, do you only need one target? Just keep shooting through the bull's-eye?"

  "No. I hang the target sideways."

  "In profile?"

  "Yes."

  "So you shoot the paper in half when the edge is facing you?"

  Tequila nodded.

  "How thick is that? Point two millimeters?"

  "Point one."

  "Is it wrong that I'm turned on right now?" Hammett asked.

  "Yes."

  Practically everything about Hammett was wrong. But he kept that thought to himself.

  Tequila traded Hammett the Stechkin for the Nagant. This was a seven shot revolver, and the cylinder didn't swing out, so it had to be side-loaded one cartridge at a time. The grip wasn't as ergonomic as the Stechkin's, and the silencer on the barrel threw off the weapon's balance.

  Tequila aimed, and was surprised by the trigger pull; it had to be at least twenty pounds. But he could crack pecans with his fingers, so he had no difficulty in firing off a round. It sounded like an air gun; just a small pfffft and nothing more. The aim was a little high, but he quickly adjusted with subsequent shots. When he finished, he'd shot a tight circle around his Stechkin bullet hole.

  Not bad for a gun almost a hundred years old.

  Not bad for a man almost sixty.

  "I'll take this one," he said.

  "Can I try it?"

  "Not many rounds left. You keep the Stechkin."

  Hammett stared at him, as if wanting to ask a question.

  "What?" he finally asked.

  "You might be the best marksman I've ever seen."

  He didn't reply.

  "I wouldn't want to get into a firefight with you."

  "So don't," he said.

  Tequila couldn't read her expression, and he didn't bother trying. A cold breeze pinched his uncovered ears, and the forest around him waved. He looked at the tree they'd shot. Looked at it as a tree, not as a target. Tall, a thick trunk, older than he was.

  Their bullets had scarred it, but the tree would outlive him.

  It would outlive him and Hammett both.

  They walked back to the Vespa in silence. Tequila wanted both the Stechkin and Nagant for his collection, and he considered asking Hammett if she'd sell the guns to him when this was over. He decided to wait and see how things turned out.

  Hammett straddled the bike behind him and looped her hands around his waist.

  "Where are we going?" he asked.

  "Good question."

  Tequila waited.

  "The… an old instructor I had… he called philosophy masturbation for the mind. I prefer to keep my mind focused, on task. Too many questions muddy things up. Especially questions without answers. Like where are we going."

  "I was asking for a location. Not in life."

  "I know. But destinations matter. So do origins. Where we're going is dependent upon where we came from."

  Another pause. Tequila hoped Hammett would get to the point soon.

  "Do you ever wonder," she eventually said, "what it would be like to be normal?"

  "What's normal?"

  "To have lived a life untouched by violence."

  Tequila assumed that everyone, in some way, was touched by violence. But he guessed Hammett, like him, had more than a fair share of it. Both on the receiving end, and the giving.

  "No," he said. "I don't think about it."

  "Why not?"

  "I've had it hard. I don't want to make things any harder."

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  "Get back on the road," Hammett finally said. "Head south."

  * * *

  Driving past Circus Maximus gave Tequila the same feeling he had when he'd first stepped onto the floor of the Colosseum. This was ancient Rome's biggest attraction. Up to two hundred and fifty thousand people gathered around the long track, stretching between the Palatine and Aventine hills, to watch chariot races. Almost a half a mile long, and a hundred yards wide, it must have been quite the spectacle.

  But unlike the Colosseum, which still retained some of its former grandeur and beauty, il Circo Massimo was now just a near-empty stretch of land. It looked like an overgrown parking lot, weeds invading the ancient sand track, trees and brush dotting the sidelines where spectators once cheered from towering stadium seats. If Tequila hadn't known what this area was, he wouldn't have given it a second glance.

  Last year, the Rolling Stones played here. Once a glorious testament to the human spirit, now just a field.

  History is never kind, but it can be crueler to some.

  They turned north on Via Dell'ara Massima di Ercole. Hammett gave him a squeeze, the signal to slow down.

  "Park up here on the corner," she yelled over the wind. "It's on the west side of the street. Next to the hotel."

  Tequila found a spot and parked the Vespa. While Hammett checked the area to make sure no one was watching, he loaded the guns and handed her the Stechkin with an extra moon clip.

  "I'll pay our cover fee. If anyone says anything to you, answer them with, Mi dispiace, ma non parlo bene l'italiano."

  Tequila stared at her.

  "It means, I'm sorry, I don't speak Italian very well. You want to try it a few times?"

  He continued to stare.

  "Or you can just not say anything."

  Tequila tucked the loaded Nagant into his jacket. He still had his other weapons on him, but those would only be used as a last resort. The goal was to get in and out without drawing attention.

  "Exits?" he asked.

  "On the main floor there's the alley entrance and a fire exit that lets out further down. Damiano will be in the basement. There are stairs and an elevator but no exit to outside."

  Dusk was upon them, throwing crazy streaks of purple and orange on the city. Vehicles and buildings had begun to turn their lights on. Their backs were to Palatine Hill, the former capital of Rome, a landmark dotted with ruins and infinite photo opportunities. Tequila didn't bother to glance at it. His mind was in the now.

  "How many people inside?"

  "It's still early, but I expect at least a hundred."

  "What kind of gambling is it?"

  Hammett didn't answer, instead briskly crossed the street. Tequila didn't like her dodging the question. He also didn't like rushing into a situation without proper planning. What should have been a carefully orchestrated plan was instead looking like amateur night at the improv club.

  He crossed in front of an oncoming tram and caught her elbow. Hammett immediately twisted away and snapped out a palm at his chin. Tequila blocked it, pushing her arm aside, then catching her knee in his palm as it flexed up toward his groin. His other hand locked on her throat. Hammett's eyes were slits and her jaw jutted out at him, but the flash of anger vanished as quickly as it had surfaced.

  "Reflex," Hammett spoke over the sound of the tram as it passed. "I don't like to be grabbed."

  "There's something you aren't telling me."

  They stared at each other. Hammett smiled and batted her eyelashes, no doubt trying to put him at ease. It was about as effective as a lioness trying to look harmless while a dead gazelle hung from its jaws.

  "Either squeeze my neck harder and whip your cock out," Hammett said, "or let's go kill this guy."

  Tequila released his grip on both her throat and her knee. Hammett slowly reached into her pocket. She produced two earpieces and handed him one.