Стивен Хантер - G-Man

“You’re busted, sniper,” came the call. “Freeze! Hands on head, knees on ground. All the slack’s out of my trigger. I don’t want to kill you, but you’re about six ounces and a twitch from it, so don’t move a whisper.”

A black shape behind one of the beams detached itself from the earth and came at him. He felt a hand quickly slip inside his coat, and the 157345C, cocked and locked on hardball, came out and was set aside. The gunman moved away, keeping the red dot plastered on the side of Swagger’s head.

The other shape came over, setting himself up close enough not to miss, but too far to be taken down by a fast move. These boys were professionals. Two large men, but not fatties, more like pro-football players of the linebacker variety, their faces hidden by balaclavas.

“Thanks for digging the guns up for us,” said one of them. “Now, you take it easy, you get out of this alive. We know you’se a tricky motherfucker, full of surprises, but don’t you be doing no fancy work on us or you will die regretting it. We are pros.” They sat him down on the edge of the hole he had dug, and one of them pulled a smallish leather case out of his jacket.

“We just gonna zip you full of sodium p and take the treasure out of here. When you wake up two days from now—”

But then he froze. There was a red dot on his chest.

“Drop the guns, fat boys. I got M4 rock and roll on you. And I’m eager to shoot.”

It was Nick Memphis, emerging from the rubble of the cabin with his carbine tight to shoulder.

The two fat things abandoned their weapons, which fell like ingots to the earth. Their hands came up.

“Joke’s on you, chubbo,” said Swagger, picking up his grandfather’s pistol. “You thought you were hunting me. All the time, I was hunting you.”

A BAR NEAR CENTRAL POLICE HEADQUARTERS

CHICAGO

Mid-November 1934

Charles had a briefcase full of pistols and revolvers, plus ammunition. He had a Colt .45 Government Model, a Colt Super .38 Government Model, a Smith & Wesson .38 Special Military & Police, a .38/44 Heavy Duty Smith & Wesson, a Colt Official Police .38 Special, and, finally, a Colt Detective Special .32.

He thought Sam, who had finally agreed to a shooting session, would end up with the Super .38, if he could just get the loading and cocking down. It was the easiest to shoot, had the least recoil, was more powerful than all except the .45. Many of the younger men — Ed Hollis, for one — carried them. He thought the safety, absent on the revolvers, would improve Sam’s confidence. He just had to commit to the cocked-and-locked carry mode and condition himself to the easy-as-pie downstroke on the safety lever as a part of the draw. He was worried Sam would opt for the dick special in the banker’s caliber,32, because it was light, smallish, and had even less recoil than the Super. Unfortunately, it had less power, and small guns with small sights are notoriously hard to shoot well. They’re for men who carry much but shoot little.

Sam was testy that morning, evasive and unsettled. Charles had never seen him so restless or irritable. On the six-block walk from the Bankers Building to the Chicago Police Headquarters Building at State and 11th, where Charles had reserved a booth at the shooting range, he said nothing, just grimly poked his way through the fall crowds that thronged the Loop, his topcoat tight, his scarf tight, his hat pressed down to his ears. He seemed like a grumpy insurance salesman.

Finally, they reached the big cop building, and Sam turned to Charles before they crossed the last street.

“Look, we have to have a talk, okay? Come on, let’s get a drink. Mormon exception granted by the nearest Elder, who happens to be me. Come on.”

They crossed the street and halfway down the block found a darkened place called Skip’s. They went to a deserted booth and took a seat. Skip himself ambled over in time, agreed to fetch two drafts, and did. They were the only customers.

Sam took a good big swallow.

“Are you all right, Sam?” asked Charles.

“Not really,” said Sam.

“Can I help or anything?”

“Not really,” said Sam, taking another swig.

“Look,” he finally said, “I’m going to be honest with you. Nobody’s really figured it out, but I seem to be out of wiggle room.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The guns.”

“The guns?”

“They scare the hell out of me. I don’t even like to be around them. You never see me in the arms room. If you notice, I sort of wander away when the discussion turns to shooting. I’ve been ducking you on this one for months now. I just don’t think I can do it.”

“Sam, they’re just tools. They don’t have brains, blood, feelings, souls. They don’t wear a certain size shoe or favor red ties over blue, are Catholic instead of Protestant.”

“Yes, yes, it’s silly. And silly as it is, it’s still not even the truth. Excuse me for unburdening myself. The guns are only the first part of it. It’s a bigger problem: I’m a coward.”

“Nobody’s a coward,” said Charles. “You just have to find something to fight for, that’s all.”

“No, I’m the real thing. I’m your first coward.”

“Sam, I—”

“Poor Charles. You can’t even imagine such a thing, can you? This must be so baffling to a man of your natural courage.”

“I get scared every time,” he said, even if it wasn’t true.

“Not like I do. I get physically sick, my hands shake, I can’t breathe right, and I hear a voice screaming, ‘Run! Run! Get the hell out of here!’ I backed down from at least ten fights as a kid.”

“As a kid, you were too smart to fight for the bullshit kids fight for: reputation, a gal, to get back at Jack for what he said. Damned few things worth fighting for, you saw that. I was in a whole war that wasn’t worth fighting. But some things are, and if that day comes, you’ll be fine.”

“I’m only here because I liked the ‘scientific’ part of the Division. I had a talent for organization and administration. I like making the calls, moving the parts around, solving the puzzle. It’s endlessly fascinating. But the joke’s on me: I ended up in the middle of a battlefield! The last place I wanted to be!”

“The battle’s almost over,” said Charles. “And if you don’t mind me pointing it out, I think you won it.”

“Charles, you’re trying to put it in such a good light. I opted out of every possible violent episode over the past five months. I wasn’t at Little Bohemia. I was across the street and down the block at the Biograph. You went to St. Paul, not me. You went to East Liverpool, not me. I am so glad I found you. I knew I’d chicken out, and the best thing I did was find a surrogate with guts.”

“I don’t know any such thing. I ain’t heard nobody say such a thing, and if he did, he’d have me to meet in the alley. You shoot a bit, you’ll see the guns ain’t dramatic. They ain’t. A bit. You get used to them. After a few hundred rounds, they’re just things. I see that all the time. These young guys, they get such a charge the first time, they think they’re Billy the Kid, and the second time they notice guns are heavy, greasy, dirty, they rip your clothes, and, if you don’t watch it, make your ears ring for the rest of your life.”

“Charles, you are so forgiving. But I think I need a psychiatrist, not a man killer.”

“What I really am is a range officer, and I can talk you through it. That’s all you need, is a good range officer. To hell with the witch doctors. I will say this with pride: I am the best range officer in the world, and have taught many a man the drill, and when he does the drill, the drill gets him through the fight. Saw it happen a hundred times in the war, saw it happen here, and, by god, I will get you over this.”