Free Spy Games by Gina Robinson Page A

him blankly, he nodded toward my phone.
    “Pesky friends,” I said. “They’re dying of curiosity about my vacation. Why would any sane woman go to spy camp?”
    “Good question,” he said.
    I didn’t answer.
    “You’re not going to berate me for apparently questioning your sanity?” he asked.
    “I’m here for the same reason as the rest of you—for the adrenaline rush.”
    “Then why do you look so pale and frightened?”
    “Are you calling me a scaredy-pants?” I said, trying to muster up some real indignation.
    “That’s my girl. That’s more like it,” Van said, not at all perturbed. “I like spunk.” But he was still giving me the questioning look.
    “A girl should know how to protect herself,” I said. I was spared from further explanation.
    We’d reached the firing range. War opened a gargantuan gun safe that looked like it housed the complete arsenal of Manuel Noriega.
    “War’d better not let ATF find out about that,” I whispered to Van, pointing to the safe. “We’ll have another Waco on our hands.”
    “I’m guessing he has permits,” Van replied.
    War began giving instructions on how to handle the weapons. He started with the M9 pistol he was about to issue us. The M9 is a lightweight Berretta. Standard Army issue. It had a longer barrel than mine, but it shot the same 9mm rounds. I didn’t anticipate any problems handling it. War referred to it as a “personal defense weapon,” which somehow sounded less scary and more politically correct than gun. In theory it could be anything—pepper spray, a loud whistle, a billy club, a karate chop, even a really good, stern look accompanied by a scream.
    War issued us each a PDW, then went on to explain how to handle, operate, and clean it before moving on to the next PDW, which was so much stronger, he could have referred to it as a mega PDW. I did.
    “This is the MP-five submachine gun,” War said, removing one and holding it up.
    It was a real James Bond–type weapon. All the guys were lathering at the mouth over it like it was a Playboy centerfold. I eyed it with caution and a certain amount of fear. You could do serious damage with that thing. In the wrong hands…
    I leaned over and whispered to Van. “I’d like it better if it came with Pierce Brosnan as an accessory.”
    “A Bond Girl would be better.”
    “You think so? I disagree. I don’t think you guys would even notice a Bond Girl right now. I could strip my shirt off and do a pole dance and not one of you would pay attention.”
    “Prove it.” He flashed me a grin. “Go ahead, prove your point.”
    “Pervert,” I said, grinning.
    “Coward!” he said.
    War kept talking. “The MP-five is designed for accuracy, fifteen to thirty rounds of nine millimeter caliber destruction.” War patted it affectionately. “Black. Sleek. Small. You can holster it for covert use.”
    Assuming you wanted such a superbly deadly weapon next to your skin. Probably a rush for some people. Van would look hot with the MP-5 holstered beneath an Armani suit coat, gun carefully concealed.
    Me? It wasn’t my first choice of a fashion accessory. Thoughts of Van gave me a bigger rush.
    I forced myself to relinquish my daydreams of Van as Bond and to pay attention to War’s instructions on how to use the weapon. The old MP-5 would be a great equalizer between Ket and me. If I could overcome my fear of it. Sadly, the odds were running against me.
    I’ve been somewhat afraid of guns since I was eight and Grandpa Dutch, the very definition of the outdoor sportsman, taught me how to shoot beer cans off fence posts with a .22. Despite my gun shyness, I’d trained myself to be a pretty good shot with my Berretta. Fear of Ket had proven a great enough motivator for that accomplishment. But overcoming machine gun squeamishness was another matter altogether.
    “Right hand on the pistol grip,” War demonstrated. “Left hand on the forward handgrip. Thumb of the right hand sets the selector to