That was the thing about silat; it didn’t depend on strength or speed, but more on principles. In theory, a player always expected to go up against bigger, stronger, and multiple opponents, who were probably armed, and at least as well trained. Being able to survive and even prevail under such circumstances meant your technique had to be very good, and your system absolutely scientific. There were no perfect arts that would handle every possible attack — when Toni talked to martial artists who claimed their ancient systems were complete, she’d always ask them which form taught them how to defend against a twelve-gauge shotgun at thirty feet — but some arts were more effective than others. In her opinion, silat was better than most. Of course, she would think that, given her years of training in it.
Carl glanced at the wall clock. “Got an hour before the beginning class gets here. You want to get a cup of tea? Or coffee?”
Toni hesitated a second, then said, “Sure.”
There was no reason not to. Alex was back in Washington, and she was still not happy with him. She had programmed her com to bounce his calls, though he still tried to get through at least once every day. They were officially broken up, and she didn’t work for Net Force anymore. She had enough money to stay in London through the summer, if she felt like it, then she was going to have to find a job, and that would have to be back in the U.S. Meanwhile, she was learning a lot from Carl, who was easily the best silat player she had ever seen in person. He was a good twenty years older than she was, but there was an attraction that went beyond martial arts. He was in good shape, good-looking, and, she had found out by accident, rich. He hadn’t pushed it, but Carl knew she and Alex had split, and he was interested in her as a woman.
So far, she hadn’t pursued a relationship beyond exchanging ways to beat attackers to various kinds of pulp. So far. It was tempting — Alex had done so with Angela Cooper, the MI-6 operative they had worked with on the Goswell operation, and Toni was still very much pissed off at him for that. Yeah, sure, she had stumbled with Rusty that one time, but that was before she and Alex had become lovers. That didn’t really count.
The thing was, as angry as she was at Alex, as much as she wanted to break things and yell herself hoarse at him, she still loved him.
It was kind of hard to get around that, loving him.
Still, Carl was here, he wanted to get to know her better, and there were no strings on her. She had an idea that Carl would probably be a caring and considerate lover, and she and Alex hadn’t spent much time making love the last few weeks they had been together, and that had been more than a month ago. It was a thought.
Carl was halfway to the door before Toni realized she was lost in her thoughts.
She hurried to catch up with him.
“I’ve been thinking, there’s a place you might like to see,” he said. “You busy Saturday morning?”
“Not at all,” she said.
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at your flat. Around eight A.M.?”
“Great.”
Howard had to admit that the P&R had some advantages over the Smith. He recovered the sight picture for his second shot quicker, and the slightly longer sight radius made him more accurate. He was doing better than he usually did with the Smith, and for a new gun, that was fairly amazing. The trigger was crisp, maybe four pounds single-action, ten or so double-action. These people did good work on their hardware. Made in Plano, Texas, according to the information stamped into the black steel. Who would have guessed that? Texas.
Even so, Julio was beating him, just barely. And using a snub-nose Chief’s Special he had never shot before, that ought to be impossible.
After the last go-round, Howard put the Medusa down. He liked it. He could use it for a few days until the Smith was repaired.
“Sergeant Fernandez, bring that little revolver here, I want to take a look at it.”
“God hates a sore loser, John.”
“Let me see it.”
Fernandez came around the barrier, holding the.38 Special snubbie on his palm, cylinder latch up.
Howard looked at the weapon. Stainless steel, two-inch barrel, plain ramp-and-notch sight, nonadjustable. The grips were black plastic, boot-style, cut small so as not to reveal a concealed weapon under a thin jacket. The Chief was basically a smaller version of his revolver, a J-frame to his K-frame, a five-shooter instead of a six-honker. In the hands of an expert, this gun could certainly put the bullets on target, but the short barrel and minimal sights made such a thing difficult on a good day without a lot of practice. Julio shouldn’t be able to do it right out of the box.
“Satisfied?” He started to pull his hand away.
Howard grabbed the revolver and turned it over. When he did, he noticed the little bulge at the top of the other grip panel. At the same time, he felt the small button on the inside of the grip, under his middle finger. “And just what is this?” He pointed the gun downrange and squeezed the grips.
A hundred meters away, a bright red spot appeared all the way out on the back wall.
There was a laser built into the grips.
“You cheating bastard. You set me up.”
Julio laughed. “Gunny showed it to me before you got here. It’s from somebody called Crimson Trace — cool, ain’t it? You adjust it with a tiny little Allen wrench, right there, and up there, and it fits inside a regular holster. Doesn’t add any appreciable mass or weight, and unlike a dot scope, you don’t even have to bring the weapon up to eye level, you can hip-shoot. Gets a couple thousand rounds per set of batteries, and you can carry a spare set in the other grip panel. They make ’em for K-frames, too, so you could get them for the Medusa or the Smith.”
“You work for these people, too, Julio?”
Julio laughed again and pointed at the dancing dot. “Old guys like us, we need some advantages. You can see that sucker a couple hundred meters away in the dark and, according to Gunny, it shows up okay at handgun combat range even in daylight. Wherever the red spot is, that’s where the bullet hits. If it’s foggy or you’re worried about giving away your position, you can use the regular sights, ’cause the laser don’t get in the way. Gunny says they make these for a whole bunch of guns, including my Beretta. I’m gonna get one before Joanna has our kid and we have to start putting away every penny for his college education.”
“God hates a cheater more than he does a sore loser.”
“No second-place winner in a gunfight, John. You know that. What do you think about the Medusa?”
It wouldn’t do to admit to Julio how much he liked it, so he said, “I can force myself to use it until Gunny gets the Smith back on-line.”
Julio gave him a knowing grin. “Ah. I see.”
They’d been serving together too long for Howard to get much past his old friend. He grinned. “Okay, so it’s a great piece, you happy?”
“You working for these people, John? Getting a commission on sales?”
It was Howard’s turn to laugh, and he did.
3
Sitting in his Dodge Caravan, Patrick Morrison rode the ferry from Seattle toward Bainbridge Island. This was the first leg of a journey that would involve driving north after the boat ride, another ferry, then another short stint in the car, to finally arrive back at Port Townsend. The picturesque little town on the little peninsula where the Straits of Juan de Fuca turned south into Puget Sound was only about forty miles away from downtown Seattle as the crow flew, but a two-hour trip by car and boat, if you were lucky enough to make the ferry connections just right.