"Do you read the bible?" she asked in Italian.

  He nodded, wide-eyed, and made the sign of the cross. "L’Eterno è il mio pastore, nulla mi mancherà."

  "That's Psalms," Hammett said. "Today's lesson is from the Book of Exodus." She raised the knife. "It begins with an eye for an eye."

  Her dagger stuck, cutting him deep, but only enough to blind. Not to kill.

  Not yet.

  "A tooth for a tooth."

  She cracked the Glock across his mouth, knocking him onto all fours as he spit blood and bits of enamel.

  "An ear for an ear."

  It came off easily, like cutting a slice of cake.

  "A paw for a paw."

  Hammett stamped on his fingers, driving her heel in, feeling bones crack.

  "You don't have a tail," she said. "But this should do."

  She kicked him onto his side, her next three shots between his legs.

  "And now," she bent down and got in his face, "you're kibble, mother fucker."

  Hammett blew the whistle and pointed at the screaming, bleeding man. "Uccidere!"

  The mastiffs tore him to pieces.

  Hammett took her eyes off the feeding long enough to view the violence erupting all around her. Many men and woman were stampeding the entrance, but just as many had taken cover around the arena, behind bleachers, columns, the dead bodies of others. At least ten separate firefights were going on, bullets zinging everywhere.

  It was unacceptable. The dogs could get hurt.

  She blew the whistle, told the canines to heel, then ordered them down. Six gigantic dogs laid on either side of her, their massive heads between their paws, their eyes on Hammett as they awaited the next command.

  Hammett told them to stay.

  Then she started killing everybody.

  Though Hammett had never shot fish in a barrel, she was able to intimately understand the concept after emptying her third magazine. Never before, in all of her training, in all of her missions, had she been able to kill one person after another so easily and quickly.

  Head shot…

  Head shot…

  Head shot…

  Body shot then head shot…

  Head shot…

  It was like a shooting gallery, but with blood.

  And screaming.

  As the crowd thinned out (and piled up), Hammett ran out of ammo and began picking up the guns of the fallen. The last few were harder targets, dug in like ticks, requiring her to rush them. Hammett got shot twice in the belly, low caliber rounds that her Kevlar stopped, and once across the forearm, barely enough to break the skin. Finally, when the last person had either escaped or been dispatched, Hammett did a quick scout of the fifty-plus dead, searching for a familiar face.

  But she didn't find it.

  Tequila wasn't there.

  Tequila

  When the whole basement erupted in gunfire, Tequila dropped behind the bleachers, took a running start, and did four one-handed cartwheels and a backflip to get to the elevator just as the doors were closing.

  Goddamn Hammett.

  There were probably many lessons to be learned from this incident. Listen to your gut. Never trust anyone. Don't have sex with psychopaths. Stop collecting exotic guns. But Tequila was more concerned about survival than any wisdom he could glean, so he concentrated on saving his own neck.

  He took his Sig in his left hand, nodded politely to the two terrified women who shared the lift with him, and came out shooting when the doors opened again.

  As expected, the upstairs had devolved into the same chaos the basement had, factions shooting each other, screams and shouts and frantic people climbing over the fallen to get to the exit. Tequila took out the closest threats first, sticking to men until a woman with an Uzi pistol peppered the hardwood floor in front of him and drove a few dozen flying splinters into his legs. He dropped her with a shot to the neck, ran out of Nagant ammo (there wasn't even a reason they needed the silent weapon, goddamn Hammett), tucked it into his jacket, eased a fresh magazine into the Sig, tugged out his COP .357, and did a ruthless and bloody march past the bar, shooting anything that moved.

  Even with the POP, POP, RATATAT! of small-arms fire, loud enough to make his ears ring, the shotgun BOOM! was distinct. And painful. Tequila spun with the hit, catching several pellets in his shoulder, dropping to a knee as the scowling doorman—the one who looked like a pro wrestler—racked another shell.

  Tequila fired all four .357 rounds into the giant, causing him to drop the shotgun and stagger back.

  But he didn't fall down. And there wasn't nearly enough blood.

  Vest.

  As if the asshole wasn't big and scary enough, he also wore body armor.

  The big scary asshole lunged at Tequila, his face twisted in a rictus of rage, huge hands formed into claws.

  Tequila ducked his bad shoulder and rolled on it, grunting with pain, coming up on his feet and then dropping immediately to the floor because some other woman picked up the Uzi and tried to cut him in half. Bullets streaming over his head, Tequila pressed his palms against the floor as if doing a push up, lifting his legs in the air and mule-kicking the shooter in the chest. She spun around, peppering half a dozen other people with 9mm rounds before he put two in her spine.

  Then Tequila was kicked in the face with an enormous foot, and he collapsed onto his back and tried to blink away the stars as the giant advanced for a follow-up. Tequila quickly tucked away the empty COP, yanked the Due Buoi stiletto from his boot, and held the handle tight as the size 15 came down again.

  His shoes were leather, custom, nicely made.

  The Due Bouoi was also nicely made.

  It pierced the sole, the foot, and the toe cap, all the way to the hilt of the blade. The bouncer howled, and Tequila let go of the knife and helicoptered his legs around, using the momentum to get onto his knees. His opponent was trying to balance on one leg while lifting his injured foot to free the protruding knife. Tequila hopped up to his feet, grabbed the man's ears like they were gym rings, and hung on, letting the bouncer hold Tequila's full body weight.

  The giant was strong, but off balance. Tequila was short, but solid and heavy. Gravity won out, and Tequila flipped the guy, ass-over-head, then turned over and gave him a solid chop to the trachea.

  As the bouncer choked, unable to draw a breath, Tequila located the dropped shotgun and began to clear the room, one gambler at a time. The shotgun was messy, imprecise, but did a good job of cutting a bloody swath through scumbags. It emptied all too soon. As the tempo of gunfire slowed, Tequila began to salvage the firearms of the dead to kill the stragglers. He was finishing off the last few when a sickly wheeze coming from behind him prompted Tequila to turn around.

  The bouncer had apparently given himself an emergency tracheotomy with the broken neck of a beer bottle, which stuck out of his throat in a really gross way.

  He didn't look happy.

  Tequila fired the Smith and Wesson revolver in his hand, clicking on an empty cylinder,

  The bouncer held a Desert Eagle, a huge pistol that looked small in his oversized hands. It was a beautiful weapon. A powerful weapon. Tequila hadn't ever been shot with a fifty caliber round. And his final thought, as unprofound as it was revealing, was that there were worse ways to go.

  "What's taking you so damn long?" Tequila said. "I could have killed twenty more guys already."

  Then someone yelled, "Uccidere!"

  The giant, who already looked ten kinds of unhappy with a knife in his foot and a bottle in his neck, screamed through the bottle opening as he was pounced on by a pack of huge, gray, very wrinkly dogs.

  Tequila backed away, his fear visceral and uncontrollable, as they tore the bouncer into smaller (yet still comparatively large) pieces. Tequila turned to flee and saw Hammett standing there, a broad smile on her face, something silver and metal sticking out of her lips.

  Tequila froze.

  Her cheeks bellowed out, and the dogs ceased their attack.

  Hammett said, "Vieni!" around the whistle.

  The dogs padded over to her and lined up on either side like lieutenants. Hammett patted one on the head. She didn't have to bend over to do so.

  Tequila clenched his kegel muscles to keep from pissing himself. If he did manage to get out of this alive, it likely wouldn't be with dry pants.

  "Tequila." Hammett smiled. "I'm surprised you made it. Surprised, but pleased."

  Tequila glanced down. The bouncer's severed hand was still gripped around the Desert Eagle.

  Hammett lost the smile. "Don't think about it. I blow this whistle, they'll pounce on you like a rawhide treat."

  "It's a Desert Eagle. Worth about two grand."

  "Leave it."

  "It's a really nice gun."

  "I've got your guns right here." Hammett patted her bag.

  "So throw them to me and leave with your canine friends."

  "We're not out of this yet. I'll make you a deal."

  "I don't feel comfortable making any more deals with you, Hammett. No offense."

  "If we get out of Rome with all six dogs, besides the four guns, I'll sweeten the pot."

  "Thanks for thinking of me, but I'd rather travel alone."

  "Some people got away, Tequila. They'll ID us. We're going to be chased by every Mafioso in the country. And this is Italy. There are a fuckload of them. And they're going to be very motivated and very angry."

  She had a point. Taking a fifty cal slug to the face was a decent way to go out. Being tortured to death over a period of weeks held much less appeal.

  Tequila eyed the Desert Eagle again. If he was fast, he might have enough time to shoot Hammett, then himself, before the dogs got to him.

  "You help us get out of here," Hammett continued, "I'll also give you a Civil War LeMat and a Medusa M47 revolver."

  That pulled him out of his murder/suicide fantasy.

  "Bullshit. You didn't have time to steal those. We stopped by the exhibit for ten minutes."

  "I stole them when we were there the first time, braniac. When I said I was going to the bathroom."

  She took the other two guns out of her bag, showing him.

  They were gorgeous.

  He wanted them.

  God, she was an asshole.

  So was he. Maybe he needed to work on formulating some actual friendships with decent, worthwhile people instead of leading a miserly existence building a silly collection. Tequila promised himself he'd work on doing that. After he got the LeMat and Medusa.

  "What's your exit strategy?" he asked, hoping she had a plane parked nearby.

  "A van in the alley. We take it to the coast, Lido di Ostia, where I have a yacht waiting. Sail to Barcelona. You can fly anywhere from there. Do you have your passport on you?"

  Tequila nodded.

  "Is it a deal, then?"

  "I'm thinking."

  "I need to know now."

  "And if I say no?"

  Hammett paused. Then she said, "Then I'll make good on our previous arrangement. I'll leave you the Stechkin, the Caricato, and the Rhino."

  "I'll take that option."

  Hammett stared at him. Tequila began to imagine his next move in his head. Drop down, grab the Desert Eagle, fire twice at her, stick the barrel in his mouth—

  "Okay," Hammett said.

  "Okay?"

  "We're done here. Thanks for your help."

  She took the three guns out of her bag, and placed them on the floor between her feet.

  "Don't try to follow me," Hammett said.

  She blew the whistle, yelled something in Italian, and all six dogs followed her out the front door.

  Unable to fathom his luck, Tequila scooped up the Desert Eagle, then went to grab his new acquisitions. Picking up the Caricato was almost a religious experience. Maybe he had no friends. But with guns like this, who needed companionship?

  He found a leather handbag on the floor—its owner was missing half her head and no longer needed it—and he dumped out her crap and carefully loaded the guns inside, wrapping them in a scarf that the owner no longer needed, not with six bullets in her chest.

  On his way to the entrance, he added a few more guns to his collection. Nothing particularly exotic, but he picked up an AMT Hardballer, an FN Baby Browning, a Walther P99, a Ruger P345, and a Kel-Tec P-11. He'd never hunted for Easter eggs as a child, but imagined this is what it was like. Minus the puddles of blood and bits of flesh and gore strewn everywhere.

  When he stuck his head out the entrance, into the alley, he was pleased to find it empty. And quiet.

  He couldn't believe it. All signs pointed to him actually living through this.

  Tequila sighed. A deep, big, genuine sigh.

  Sometimes, against all odds, things turn out okay.

  Then he heard gunfire.

  Lots of gunfire.

  Followed by barking.

  He sighed again, this one terse.

  Goddamn Hammett.

  A moment later, Hammett came sprinting at him, surrounded by six bounding dogs.

  "VAN-IS-TRASHED-RUN!" she yelled, sailing past.

  At least a dozen men, armed with machine guns, appeared at the end of the alley. Tequila took off after the dogs, pumping his legs as fast as he could, catching up to her as the bullets began to spray.

  Hammett cut east, jumping in front of a tram, throwing her body at it and bouncing off the front windshield. The vehicle was green, the bastard child of a bus and a subway train, two cars long and covered with graffiti, like everything else in Rome. The driver squealed the brakes, sparks flying as metal wheels ground against the tracks. Then the driver opened the side door and rushed out to help the woman he'd just hit.

  Big mistake on his part.

  Hammett shot the guy in the leg, then climbed onto the tram and began to order everyone off at gunpoint. They only needed to be asked once, flooding out into the street, their screams drowned out by the near-constant barrage of shots coming from the alley. Tequila crouched behind the tram's front and returned fire with his new Desert Eagle. When he emptied the magazine, he tossed it in the bag as the dogs bounded onto the tram after Hammett.

  Hammett tapped the windshield with her gun and mouthed at him, "Coming?"

  He shook his head. Hammett hit the gas as the side of the tram was peppered with bullets. Tequila, a moment too late, realized she was taking his cover with her, and ran alongside Hammett to keep from getting chewed up into hamburger by automatic weapons.

  As soon as he was clear he considered his next move, and was interrupted by a car coming straight at him.

  A sports car with wiseguys hanging out the windows, pointing guns in his direction.

  They began to fire.

  He was about to be shot. Or run over. Or both.

  Or neither.

  He always wanted to try to leap a car. And second time was a charm.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Tequila had two steps to adjust his stride.

  Lead screamed past his ears.

  Impact in three…

  Two…

  One…

  Tequila jumped as high as he could, spreading his legs in a leapfrog.

  The sports car—some overpriced road-hugging Italian model—passed underneath him. Tequila's left foot kissed the cheek of the gangster sticking out the passenger window. His right foot kicked away the gun of the driver-side shooter. Tequila began to face-plant, and he tucked in his knees to accelerate his rotational momentum, completing a flying summersault, and then sticking the landing in a full sprint.

  It might have been the single greatest gymnastic move he'd ever pulled off, except for one thing.

  Tequila had dropped his gun bag.

  Shit.

  Shit shit shit.

  He stopped, shifting his weight and skidding on the pebble-covered street, and then turned to search for it. To his left, Hammett slammed on the tram brakes and it screeched to a stop. Ahead of him, the sports car fishtailed and did a one-eighty, squealing tires and coming for him again.

  Tequila didn't find his guns, but he did spot the Spectre M4 he'd kicked out of the thug's hands. He dipped a shoulder, rolled to it, sighted, and spat eight hundred and fifty rounds per minute at the driver barreling at him.

  The car veered left and smashed into a Starbucks. It didn't explode, but someone did stagger out of the building, screaming in English that he'd spilled hot latte all over himself.

  There was a high pitched horn, and Tequila followed the noise to the tram. Hammett waved at him from the driver's seat.

  She was holding up his bag of guns.

  Tequila considered pointing the Spectre at her, but up the street two more vehicles, complete with Mafioso holding guns, were heading his way.

  Hammett opened the tram door for him, and he sprang on board, rushing to her, putting the gun against her head.

  Before he could say anything Tequila was hit from behind by two hundred pounds of loose-skinned dog, and his entire head was engulfed by a warm, wet mouth.

  "Stop!" Hammett yelled.

  Rather than feel the crunch of his skull being flattened, or the snap of his spine severing, the dog released him, a thick rope of drool connecting Tequila with the canine before it dripped away.

  "Cover us," Hammett told him.

  He nodded.

  She hit the gas.

  Tequila turned around. He needed to get to the rear of the tram, but a thousand pounds of canine stood between him and his objective.

  "They won't attack you unless I order them to," Hammett said.

  Tequila wasn't so sure. They looked harmless enough. Like giant, gray bulldogs. They all had huge, sagging jowls, which flapped even as they stood still. Black, glossy noses big as his fist. Pink lolling tongues. Wagging tails. Droopy, sad eyes.

  But bears were cute, too. Until they were yanking your intestines out your ass.

  "I'd rather take my chances outside," he said.

  "Scendere!" Hammett yelled.

  All six dogs got down, just as the tram windows spiderwebbed with gunfire. Tequila ducked, crawling into a molded plastic seat. He aimed the Spectre and fired, but the magazine was empty.

  "I need the guns!"

  "Rosalina! Voi andare a prendere!"

  One of the dogs went to Hammett, took the gun bag in its huge mouth, and brought it to Tequila. He looked at the brass tag on the dog's shredded ear.