"Bluetooth communicators. They're hooked up to my cell phone, which is on. As long as we stay within ten meters of each other, we can talk."

  She screwed one into her ear, and Tequila did the same. It was heavier than he expected.

  "You can keep your voice soft," Hammett said. Tequila heard her in his empty ear, then heard her a moment later in the ear with the device. "The microphone is sensitive."

  She slipped her hand into his, interlacing their fingers, and then led him toward the hotel.

  "I don't know what our target looks like," Tequila said.

  "Fifties. Black hair, black mustache, brown eyes, glasses, five feet ten inches, potbelly, two hundred and twenty pounds, fifty-three years old. I'll point him out when we're inside. Then we separate, take positions, take him out, make a quick exit."

  "Cameras?"

  "No cameras."

  Tequila hesitated. He'd never been in a casino without cameras. Seemed odd. His old boss, a bookie, had cameras everywhere.

  "No one who goes there wants anything recorded," Hammett explained without him needing to ask. "This is an illegal operation."

  She tugged his hand, hard, to get him to start moving again. When he remained standing, something dark crossed Hammett's face. Children who grew up in violent environments were often good at sensing when something was wrong. Sensing when it was time to hide.

  Tequila felt it was time to hide.

  He was getting the same vibe from Hammett he used to get while watching his father drink. She was insane and violent and a thousand times more dangerous than his old man, and Tequila knew that at any moment she was going to lash out. The strange thing was, Tequila felt she was going to lash out at him, which made no sense because he was there to help her.

  Wasn't he?

  They walked into a cobblestone alley, one that was oddly devoid of graffiti, and up to a group of well dressed, loud people waiting next to a metal side door. The bouncer was big as a professional wrestler, his gray sharkskin suit cut wide under the left arm where an underslung sawed-off shotgun hung in plain sight. Next to him was a smaller man, older, a metal suitcase handcuffed to his wrist. The big guy was practicing his scowl. The smaller guy smiled a lot, patted shoulders, kissed women's hands, and took money, shoving it through a slot in the side of the case.

  Tequila sighted up the alley, expecting to see spotters. It was empty.

  "No more guards?" he whispered.

  "They pay off the police," Hammett said. "And no one is crazy enough to try to rob this place. It's protected."

  Hammett said something in Italian to the smaller guy, then handed him a fistful of 100 Euro notes. The scowly guy with the shotgun gave Tequila a hard look, and Tequila glanced away, feigning timidity. Then they were inside, pushing through a throng of wiseguys and rich assholes drinking and carousing, laughing and snorting drugs, smoking everything that could be smoked.

  Everyone was armed. There were the obvious bodyguards, and young turks trying to make their bones, and old men dressed in suits so shiny they glowed, and they all had guns. Many of the women did, too, a derringer holster in their cleavage, a bulge in one leather boot, a purse that swung a bit too heavy.

  Hammett was right. A person would have to be crazy to try anything here.

  Unfortunately, Hammett was crazy. She was as crazy as they came.

  And he must have been crazy to follow a crazy person into a crazy situation.

  Five steps into the crowded room, over the various smokes and cloying perfume, Tequila smelled it. A musky, oily stench that curled his nostrils and made his forearms break out in gooseflesh. A moment later, his ears confirmed what his nose already knew, as a plaintive snarl rose above the people sounds of laughter and chatter and clinking glasses.

  Dogs.

  There were dogs here.

  Tequila stopped. Hammett tried to pull him but he stayed rooted. She turned and raised an eyebrow.

  "This is a dogfighting ring."

  "Didn't I mention that?" Hammett asked. She was doing her best to look innocent, and because he could only hear her through the earpiece there was a time delay between her lips moving and her words, so she looked like a badly dubbed kung fu movie.

  "No, you didn't."

  "I didn't think it mattered."

  "I…" Tequila chose his words carefully, "don't do well with dogs."

  It was the understatement of the century. Tequila could clearly remember every single excruciating second of a previous encounter he'd had with seven pit bull mastiffs. They'd been trained to kill, and had come close to ripping him to pieces. He wasn't anxious to relive the experience.

  "We're not here for the dogs," Hammett said.

  "Bullshit."

  Hammett's crocodile smile fell off her face. "We're here for the guy. But if we happen to save a few dogs along the way…"

  "I'm out," he said, dropping her hand and turning to leave.

  "If you help me finish this you can have all four guns."

  He stopped. "Four?"

  "I also got that Ghisoni Rhino prototype."

  He looked back at her, and she reached into her bag and showed him the butt of the Rhino.

  Boy, she was an asshole.

  And he was an asshole for even considering it.

  "I need your help," she said. "Please."

  Tequila didn't trust Hammett. But he really wanted those guns. Collecting, he knew, was a disease. A disease that had no cure. And the only treatment was to feed the need. He'd made a bit of money in his lifetime, and had spent a good portion of it on exotic weapons. While there were certain super-rare guns that would forever be out of his price range, the biggest problem was scarcity. Some firearms never came up for sale. The Caricato was one. The Rhino prototype was another. Tequila had only seen one other Nagant in the past thirty years, and he'd missed the opportunity to buy it. And Stechkin's weren't for sale in the US.

  Tequila had no family. No friends.

  All he had was his collection.

  This was a chance to make it bigger and better. A risky chance, but still a chance.

  Of course, the faster way to get the guns was to take them away from Hammett. She must have read his intent, because she furrowed her brow and adjusted the bag so it hung behind her. Then she moved her hand over the gun in her jacket as if ready to draw.

  Tequila believed he could take her if he was drawing his Sig from his pocket. But the Sig was in his back holster, which was a farther reach, and the Nagant could snag when he pulled it.

  "What are we doing here?" Hammett asked. "Finishing the job, or shooting each other?"

  Tequila didn't answer.

  "Well?"

  "I'm thinking," he said.

  Tequila wouldn't risk his life for dogs.

  But he would risk it for some cool guns.

  Besides, he didn't have anything else going on that night.

  "Okay," he finally said. "But—"

  "I know, I know, no double crossing you or else blah blah blah. You're repeating yourself."

  Tequila didn't bother telling her that the only reason he kept repeating himself was because she refused to be honest. She'd played him. Withheld information. As far as he knew, Hammett hadn't said a single thing that was true. And he believed she was still lying to him. As soon as Hammett got what she wanted, Tequila was sure she'd leave him there to die, or kill him herself.

  There was only one guaranteed way to deal with that.

  Kill her first.

  What had Hammett said?

  Like recognizes like.

  As soon as Tequila had the chance to get away with the guns, he'd have no problem putting two slugs into her head, without hesitation or regret.

  And the world would be a better place for it.

  Hammett

  Two Days Ago

  She'd never seen a Neapolitan Mastiff before, and Hammett was so surprised by the sight that she forgot her mission objective.

  After sixteen hours of surveillance, Dr. Lucio Damiano led her to the underground dogfighting arena. He was with a girl who couldn't have been older than fifteen, groping her in a way that indicated he could not have been a concerned parent or relative, and Hammett had to control herself not to slip a knife between his ribs. She could have easily done so, or poked him with the tetrodotoxin, or even followed him to the bathroom and snapped his neck, and then gotten out of Rome free and clear. This was a simple job, and it shouldn't have taken long.

  Then she saw the doggies.

  There were six of them, various shades of gray, wrinkled from snout to toenails like Chinese sharpeis. Each as big as a St. Bernard.

  Magnificent. Adorable.

  And battered.

  The dogs were in cages, next to the basement arena. Each had patches of hair shaved off, revealing ugly, crooked stitches in various stages of healing.

  One was missing a tail.

  One had no canine teeth.

  One had ears that were torn to strips.

  One had no left eye.

  The rage Hammett felt almost bubbled over, and in order to keep it locked down she bit her tongue until she drew blood. When she regained control, she sidled up to Damiano, who was salivating over the cockfight taking place in the arena. Hammett asked, in Italian, where she had to go to bet on the roosters. Without even looking at her, Damiano told Hammett to go to the betting booth upstairs, at the end of the bar.

  One of the birds, razors clipped to the spurs on its feet, jumped atop its opponent and slashed, drawing blood.

  Damiano cheered.

  "When are the dog fights?" she asked.

  "Two days," he said. "They only fight once a month. Need time to heal up in between matches."

  "It isn't to the death?"

  "They are Italian mastiffs. Rare, expensive breed. They fight until one gets the other by the throat. Then their owner breaks it up. But in two days it will be different. All six will fight to the death, until there is only one dog left. It's going to be glorious."

  Hammett stared at the girl. Her heavy make-up couldn't hide the swelling under her eye. She had a zombie look about her that Hammett recognized. Taking abuse was never easy, but it especially hurt the young.

  Hammett wandered over to the cages.

  For fighting dogs, they looked extremely docile. Tongues lolling out. Tails wagging. When Hammett got closer, she could see their ears had been tagged, brass circles with their names engraved. The one-eyed dog was Mario. The one missing his fangs was Luigi. Shredded ears was Peach. No tail was Daisy. The biggest of the group was Wario, several toes on his back paw gone. The smallest, and most beaten up, was Rosalina. She looked like a crazy quilt.

  "You like my dogs?"

  The guy swaggered up to Hammett. Black suit, slicked back hair, pencil mustache. Around his neck, half hidden in a tangle of curly chest hair, was a gold chain. At the end of it hung something Hammett assumed was a coke spoon. Then she realized was a dog whistle.

  "Can I pet them?" Hammett asked. She let Rosalina smell her palm, and the dog pressed its giant nose through the bars and licked her.

  "These dogs are killers," the man boasted. "The fiercest fighting dogs in Rome. Mind your hands, woman."

  He lifted his necklace to his mouth and put the whistle between his lips and blew, then pointed at Hammett and yelled, "Uccidere!"

  Italian for kill.

  A moment later the dogs were barking and howling and pawing at the bars, shaking their cages, fighting to get at Hammett. She backed away, and their owner let out a deep belly laugh. He blew the whistle again, and the dogs were back to their calm selves.

  Hammett almost lost control, almost pulled out her boot knife and opened him up from his crotch to his sternum, spilling his insides all over his pointy leather shoes. But getting away would have been difficult with all of the guns in the building. Plus, it wouldn't have helped the dogs. Their sadistic owner would be dead, but no doubt someone else would take over.

  So she bit her tongue. Literally. Swallowing her own tangy blood as she formulated a plan.

  The thing to do was to come back later. Cause a distraction of some kind, then get away with the animals. But a bomb, or a fire, wasn't wise in a basement without any exits. There would be panicking, running for the stairs. And the dogs could be harmed.

  What Hammett needed was a patsy. Someone to be the distraction. To draw fire while she got out of there.

  Luckily, this was Rome. There were millions of stupid, sex-hungry men she could seduce. It would be easy enough to set up some poor schlub, giving Hammett a chance to kill the fuckers who needed to be killed and get the hell out of there with the pooches.

  "What other commands do they know?" Hammett asked, hiding her disgust by trying to appear afraid.

  "Come. Stay. Stop. Heel. Down. These are very smart dogs. Smart and loyal. If I ask them to die for me, they would. And on Friday, they will."

  Hammett smiled, and it was genuine.

  Because these dogs weren't going to die for this son of a bitch.

  He was the one who only had two days left to live.

  All she had to do was find some gullible moron to unwittingly help her out.

  Tequila

  Present

  Tequila stared at the dogs, feeling like a gullible moron.

  The animals were gigantic. The smallest of the six had to be at least a hundred and fifty pounds. And Tequila knew, by their battle scars, that they were fighters.

  He kept his distance.

  "If you let them out and any get near me," he told Hammett, "I will shoot them."

  "I'll shoot you first," she said, waving to him from across the arena.

  "I'll shoot you first."

  "What is this, second grade?"

  "Were you shooting people in second grade?"

  "I'll handle the dogs," Hammett said. "Do you have a line of sight on the target?"

  "Yes."

  Tequila dared to look away from Hammett long enough to spy Damiano. There were at least a hundred people packed onto the risers circling the arena, but he had a clear view of the scientist sitting in the front row, next to an inappropriately dressed teenage girl. Tequila stood in the back row next to a brick column. He had a clear shot. As long as no one was paying attention when he fired, he'd be able to get away with it.

  Unless Hammett did something stupid.

  Which, of course, she did.

  "Take the shot," Hammett said, moving to Damiano's left. "No one is looking at you."

  Tequila slowly removed the Nagant and held it alongside his leg. He pictured himself raising the gun, aiming, squeezing the trigger. Three shots should do it. A double tap, then follow him down as he falls, for the coup de grace. He mentally practiced the move once. Twice. Three times.

  "I want to tell you something," Hammett said, breaking his concentration. "Come clean. Call it a moment of conscience."

  Uh-oh. Here comes the double-cross.

  "The four guns," she continued. "I didn't buy them. I stole them."

  "How?"

  "A lock pick. And notes."

  "Notes."

  "I wrote mostra temporaneamente chiuso on a few pieces of paper, taped them to the cases after I took the guns."

  "Mostra—"

  "Exhibit temporarily closed. I acted like I belonged there, like I was just doing my job, and no one bothered me."

  "They let you take weapons worth tens of thousands of dollars and all you had to do was leave a handwritten note?"

  "People believe the written word. You believed that fake receipt I showed you."

  Tequila clenched his jaw and spoke through his teeth. "What else have you lied about?"

  "Just about everything. Damiano is a disease researcher, but he's not a hard target. I took you to the woods to look at a weapons facility. It wasn't a containment lab. I did it to make you think it was your idea to hit him here. You really should read Dale Carnegie."

  "You wanted to hit him here because you want to save the dogs," Tequila said.

  "Yes."

  "You're an asshole, Hammett."

  "I couldn't do it alone. I needed someone to cause a distraction."

  "I'm leaving," Tequila said, heading down through the crowd.

  "First you need to remove your earpiece," Hammett said. "It's packed with explosives, and I'm going to set it off now."

  Tequila saw Hammett take out her phone, and he quickly yanked out the ear bud and tossed it a millisecond before it went BOOM! over the arena.

  For a moment the room was silent. Then Hammett yelled, "Pistola!"

  She was pointing at Tequila, the Nagant still in his hand.

  Everybody looked.

  Then a hundred people drew weapons and aimed at him.

  Hammett

  With everyone staring at Tequila, their guns out, Hammett casually took out the Stechkin, aimed carefully, and blew off the side of Dr. Damiano's head from ten meters away.

  Gunfire erupted from every point in the basement, and Hammett kept low and made her way to Damiano, standing over his sprawled-out body. She put two more in his head, two in his heart, and then tucked away the Stechkin and pulled her Glock.

  Damiano's girlfriend stared at her, mouth open, something in her eyes that might have been hope.

  "Don't let men use you," Hammett told her in Italian. "You're the one who should be using them. Now lie down and play dead until this is over."

  The girl obeyed. Then Hammett went to the doggies. They were barking, frightened, bothered by all the yelling and shooting. Hammett brought her new dog whistle to her lips and blew, hard as she could.

  All six dogs stopped their fussing and stared at her.

  "Soggiorno!" she commanded.

  The dogs stayed stock-still as she shot off the locks and opened the cages.

  Gunfire, overhead and uncomfortably close, and Hammett whirled and put two bullets into her attacker's wrist, making him drop his weapon. She freed her Browning Black Label boot dagger from her ankle holster and was on the man in three steps, cutting off his gold chain as he reached for his dog whistle.

  "You!" she spat.

  The dog abuser had been cocky two days ago. All swagger and machismo. Now he looked like a frightened rabbit.