Erica Spindler - Cause for Alarm

Condor shook his head, disagreeing. "A renegade's an outlaw. Callahan was the ultimate lawman. He lived by a code of justice. Of an eye for an eye. Fight firepower with firepower, violence with violence. Simple."

"Is it simple? Is that the code you live by?"

"Basically. We live in a violent society, Luke. No matter how big and bad someone is, they're made vulnerable by the same fragile physical shell as everyone else. Think of death as the ultimate problem solver."

"And that's what you do? How you think of yourself, as a problem solver?"

"And a patriot, yes. Let's see what this baby can do." He clipped a paper target, a black silhouette of a human torso, onto the pulley, sent it back fifty or so feet and slipped on a headset. He aimed and fired, one shot after another, the explosions near simultaneous, emptying the magazine.

Condor flipped the pulley switch, retrieving the target. He had blown away the target's head and riddled its heart with holes. He replaced the target with a new one, then turned to Luke, gun butt out. "Your turn."

Luke took the weapon and reloaded. The gun felt heavier in his hands than the two and a half pounds Condor had quoted; it felt colder. He stepped up to the firing line, adjusted his target, aimed and fired, neither as quick nor, he knew without looking, as accurately as Condor.

He emptied the magazine and checked the target, grateful to see that it looked like most of his shots had at least hit the target.

"Not bad. For a civilian."

Luke's lips lifted and he handed the weapon to the other man. "Thanks."

"All that fancy hardware you see guys like me using in the movies," Condor murmured, jacking another clip of ammo into the magazine, "that's strictly Hollywood. For the professional, simple is best."

He slipped on his headset and approached the firing line. As before, he aimed, emptying the magazine in a matter of seconds. He slid the headset off and crossed back to Luke. "A gun, a knife, a garrote. Simple, effective, quick."

He reloaded the clips, his movements economical, automatic. He had done the same thing so many times, Luke saw, he didn't even have to think about what he was doing.

"The thing is," Condor continued, "the pro has to weigh firepower and effectiveness against practicality, traceability and cost. That.44 of yours has way more punch than I'd need, but it's not such a bad choice for you, if you can handle its kick. There's an intruder in your house, you want to blow as big a hole in him as you can. You might only have one shot, and who knows where you're going to put it."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

Condor laughed, then continued. "A weapon is a tool and nothing more. Not a lover or a pet. You can't get attached to your weapon-you never use one twice."

"Never?"

"Never. The same weapon would link the hits. Any mechanic worth his salt disposes of his weapon after each hit. In the case of a gun, when possible, I dismantle it first. The pieces are disposed of in a variety of locations, the butt in a Dumpster, the barrel down a storm drain, you get the picture. That way I know the weapon will never be recovered."

"Why not dispose of the body?" Luke asked. "That's evidence. No body, no crime to investigate."

"Yeah, but tougher to get rid of, wouldn't you say?" He handed the Beretta to Luke. "Remember, all police adhere to the same theory of crime solving. Motive, means and opportunity. Statistics show that most violent crimes are committed by people who know one another, so that's the first place the local boys look. Get rid of the weapon and all of a sudden you have a crime, but no motive and no weapon. I'm long gone before the local boys have even finished interrogating the wife, business partner, best friend."

Luke took the gun, replaced the clip and stepped up. He took aim, then fired. This time more confidently and with more accuracy. He slipped off the headset and handed the gun to the other man.

"Before the hit, what goes through your mind?"

"Getting in, getting the job done and getting out. The professional has two goals. Kill the target. And walk away. That's it."

"What about after the hit?" Luke asked. "You don't think about the victim's wife or kids? You don't question whether you're doing the right thing?"

"They're not people to me, Dallas. They're targets. A name and a face on a piece of paper." He laid the gun on the table. "I'm not a murderer. I'm not some amoral psycho. Those guys make me sick. They have no loyalty or self-control. They're selfish little bastards who act on whim and without honor.

"I'm a patriot. A soldier. I work for my country, and I don't question my orders." At Luke's expression he laughed. "Don't be naive, every government in the world employs men like me. We're a political necessity.

"I love my country and my family. Just like any other man, I'd do whatever's necessary to protect them. To keep them safe."

It astounded Luke to hear this man talk about honor and loyalty and patriotism. To see the tenderness in his eyes when he spoke of his wife and children.

A part of Luke realized that he should be afraid. This man could kill him in a dozen different ways, and would do it without second thought. He was a man who operated outside the law, yet within in, too.

And he was telling Luke his secrets, sharing his innermost thoughts. Making himself vulnerable to Luke. And that would be an unsettling thing for a man like Condor.

But Luke wasn't afraid. He felt in his gut that he had nothing to fear from the other man. In a weird way, he respected him. Even liked him. In any other profession, his loyalty and code of ethics would be laudable. His love of his family-and his desire to protect them-admirable.

"What you do, is it ever personal?"

"Personal?" Condor frowned. "No, not ever. You never cross that line."

"But what if a guy like you did? What if something happened, and suddenly the pro turned vigilante?"

Condor paused, as if carefully considering. "That'd be bad news, Dallas. You're talking about a killing machine. It's what he's been trained to do." Condor leaned toward him; the cold in his eyes sent a chill down Luke's spine. "He can kill a man in a hundred different ways, and he will do so without compunction. He doesn't concern himself with the moral issues that you might. He doesn't think about heaven or hell, right or wrong. He doesn't believe in someone's right to life or their humanity.

"People are targets. Pure and simple. The only thing that keeps the assassin in check is his honor. His code of ethics." He looked Luke dead in the eye. "Take that away or twist it, and you've got a veritable killing machine roaming the streets. A man to whom vengeance is just another word for justice."

Julianna and Sandy met at the coffeehouse every night for a week. At the end of that week and at Julianna's suggestion, they graduated to a Friday night dinner and movie, from there to shopping and lunch on Saturdays.

They became the very best of friends.

And, as Julianna had known she would be, Sandy was grateful for her friendship. So grateful, she never stopped to question Julianna's devotion to her, never wondered why, after having had to struggle to be liked for so long, Julianna liked everything about her so easily.

Julianna decided it was time for her to make her next move.

She chose to make it during one of their Friday nights out. They had just shared a salad and a dessert at a local café known for both and were making plans to shop the next day.

Julianna counted out the money for her half of the bill and sighed. "I really need to find a job."

"No luck yet?"

"Not unless I want to sling burgers at McDonald's."

"Bummer."

"No kidding. I never thought it would be this hard to find a decent position." She looked away, then back at