No Way Back by Michael Crow Page A

Eunkyong session, I come back to my room shaken and unhappy, and see the bed heaped with boxes all wrapped in plain brown kraft paper. I grab one at random, I’m tearing it open when Allison and Rob walk in.
    “Hey, Christmas come earlier for you than the rest of us, Terry?” she says.
    “Told you Terry was connected, didn’t I?” Rob says to her. “If I asked for all this stuff, any chance I’d get it?”
    “No way. Switches and coal, best case. You haven’t been a good boy like Terry this year,” Allison says.
    First out of the box is the Wilson SDS, and it’s a beauty. Tapered-cone four-inch barrel, ultra-light hammer, and crisp light trigger, completely dehorned for smooth draw, everything hand-fitted and polished. Tight, but so very slick.
    Allison grabs it from my palm, racks the slide, sights on the bedside lamp, squeezes off. “Ooh, smooth. Super-clean trigger break.”
    “Hey, don’t dry-fire it,” I protest, grabbing it back. So she doesn’t shoot? My ass.
    “Can’t hurt, Terry, you possessive bastard,” she says. “Stop playing with it and let’s see what else is here, okay?”
    Everything’s here. I hesitate to lift the Korth out of its case, the gun’s so pretty. But I do. I feel the perfect balance, look down the sights, examine the muzzle crown,swing out the cylinder and check the chamfering before spinning it, flipping it shut. “A work of art,” I say.
    “Better be, at that price,” Rob says.
    “Hey, Rob, know what?” Allison says. “Some guys—you, right now—really do get a greenish tinge when they’re envious.”
    I give the Springfield XD and the Boker folder a faster once-over; fine utilitarian tools, wouldn’t pain you to scuff them up with heavy use. The briefcase looks utilitarian, too; nice enough leather but not overly showy for a mid-level executive to carry. The inside’s the neat part, and whoever designed it must be some genius. The grenades, speedloaders, and spare mags are already in secure but easily accessible pockets. I slip the Korth into its suede-lined place, find it’s angled for the fastest draw with the case only partly open. Then I slowly close the case, peering at the crack till the edges meet. Brilliant! No metal touches metal. Latch it, shake it, just to be certain. Nothing inside shifts, no click of metal on metal. Open it, tap the sides. Sounds like Kevlar under that leather.
    I’m a little worried about the holsters. Custom leather is always so tight, hand-boned to the exact contours of the particular gun it was made for. It takes a few hundred practice draws before there’s no hitching or hanging up. I put on the Rosen shoulder rig, then the small-of-the-back, holster the Wilson and the XD, figure I’ll start the process right now. Both pistols come out like they’re greased, though they ride tight. Some gnome’s already done all those hundred draws for me. Very thoughtful touch.
    I’m grinning like a fool. Which is certainly how I’m behaving. I catch Allison regarding me closely. There’s something in her eyes that says she knows this, has always known it. But she smiles, makes whatever I thought I saw vanish.
    “I’ll need range time. Lots,” I say. “To break the guns in.”
    “Already arranged. Starting tomorrow afternoon,” Rob says.
    “But that’s Eunkyong time.”
    “She won’t mind, Terry,” Allison says. “Actually, she won’t be coming around anymore. At all.”
    The pleasure I’d been feeling over my new acquisitions feels truly crass, idiotic. I liked that girl. Now the last image I’m going to have of her is scared eyes. Worse, her last image of me is…shit. I don’t want to think of that.
    “Hold on. That can’t happen. I need more practice.”
    “She doesn’t think so, Terry.” Allison smiles. “She says you’re ready. We trust her judgment. So should you.”
     
    The peeling away, the vanishing, begins. People and things. One day it’s my wallet, all ID with Luther Ewing’s name on it. A few