The Art of War: A Novel by Stephen Coonts Page A

hammer wasn’t jammed with a piece of cloth, then looked at the driver. He had taken a round in the neck. Fish leaned in and shot him in the head. Then he put the revolver back in his pocket.
    Fish walked around the front of the limo and climbed back into the cab of the garbage truck, which was idling nicely. As he surveyed the street—it was nearly eleven o’clock, and no pedestrians were around—he picked up the 12-gauge pump shotgun on the seat beside him and checked it. Safety off. He pointed it at the driver’s door, so when he opened the door and started to climb out the weapon would be pointed in the right direction, ready to fire. He had used a hacksaw to cut the barrel down to twelve inches, so the front bead sight was gone. No matter. At this range, he would merely point and shoot.
    He waited. Listened to the idling diesel engine.
    He had waylaid the driver of the garbage truck an hour ago. Killed him as he climbed out of the truck. The driver was now in the bed with the garbage.
    Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. About twenty-three minutes after he shot the limo driver, Fish glanced at his watch. He wasn’t nervous, was in no hurry. He was ready, had a good plan, and it would work. He knew it would. He kept his eyes on the truck’s right rearview mirror. In it he could see the back door of the club that led out onto the loading platform.
    Two minutes or so later he saw three men come out that door. That was right. Maxwell and two bodyguards. They crossed the loading platform and went down the stairs behind the truck and a green garbage Dumpster.
    Fish opened the driver’s door and stepped out, with the shotgun pointing.
    Then they were there, coming from behind the Dumpster, heading for the limo. He had the shotgun up.
    The first shot was for the lead man. The man in the middle, Maxwell, soaked up the second round of #4 buckshot, and the third man got the third round. All body shots.
    Fish worked the slide again, catching the third spent shell in his hand, then closing the action. He picked up the two spent shells at his feet, then walked over to the men lying on the concrete. They were bleeding profusely from torso wounds. Fish was taking no chances. He fed two more shells from his left coat pocket into the magazine of the shotgun and shot Maxwell in the head, blowing it apart. Pumping the gun, he shot each of the others in the head. Picked up the spent shells.
    He went back to the truck, opened the door, tossed the shotgun into the passenger seat and climbed aboard. Brake off, transmission in gear, he pulled out onto the street and drove away.
    *   *   *
    The next morning I coffeed, ate two boiled eggs and called my lock-shop partner, Willie Varner, also known as Willie the Wire. “How’s everything?” I asked.
    “You just out of jail, or was it the hospital?” Willie was habitually surly, and more so in the mornings. I had lived with that for years, ever since we went into business together.
    “Hey, I’ve been out of town.”
    “This shop is a business, Tommy, and as a co-owner, you should check on it more often.”
    “I’m in business with a black Bill Gates. I trust you, dude.”
    “The women come in to see the Great Carmellini. And I need you to sign job bids.”
    “And I need some help today,” I told him. “I’ll be there around ten o’clock. We’ll close the shop and open it tomorrow.”
    “Any money in this?”
    “Contract wages. By the hour.”
    “Well, a little extra pocket money would be helpful,” Willie admitted.
    “Have any bids ready to sign. I’ll see you at ten or thereabouts.” I rang off.
    Willie Varner was about twenty years older than me, and probably the best lock picker alive. He had taught me a lot. He gained his skill picking hotel locks and carrying out the guests’ luggage, unfortunately without their permission. The second time he got out of prison for those activities, he decided to go straight. That’s when he and I went into the lock-shop