Free Spy Games by Gina Robinson Page B

‘safe.’ Cocking handle is pulled to the rear with your left hand and hooked into the retaining notch. Insert magazine and clip home. Left hand uses a chopping motion to release the cocking handle. Right thumb sets the selector to single shot or automatic.” He demonstrated each step, then stepped to the range and aimed at the target. “Aim and fire!”
    The sound of automatic gunfire erupted. By the time War had dispensed his magazine, his target was thoroughly punctured in the center.
    “When the magazine is empty, the working parts stay closed,” he said. “Repeat process.”
    All the guys were grinning, their irritation at Huff’s disappearance momentarily forgotten. I was playing tough, but the slender webs of fear still clung to me.
    “We’ll begin our shooting practice with the pistols,” War said. “The M-nine is a great weapon in close quarter combat.”
    When it was my turn, I stepped up, donned the ear protection, and fired off two rounds with confidence.
    “Two to the head,” War said, looking over my shoulder as I took off the earmuffs. “Impressive. The FBI hostage rescue team could use you.”
    “Huh?”
    “That was a compliment,” War said. “Two to the head should be their motto.”
    “Whatever happened to negotiations?” I asked, feeling definitely uncomplimented.
    “Nah,” War shook his head like that was sissy stuff. “That’s law enforcement. That’s why law enforcement officers don’t make good HRT men. They’re used to dealing with distraught spouses and bank robbers. You can negotiate with those; wait them out forever. HRT deals almost exclusively with terrorist situations. Two to the head to whomever you encounter. Think Jack Bauer. He who hesitates is dead.”
    “Well, it’s easy with a paper outline man,” I said, self-deprecatingly. I felt a tiny stab of relief. As War had just said, Ket could, in theory, be negotiated with. Negotiation had worked last time. Sort of. “Paper man doesn’t move. You don’t see his soul in his eyes. And he’s in a permanent state of hesitation.”
    “Still not easy to hit his head,” War said.
    “Why not go for his torso?” Steve asked. “It’s the largest target.”
    “Not always as lethal. Not as quick a kill. Gives time for the terrorist to yell out and warn his fellow terrorists of an intrusion. Two to the head.”
    “Nice to know,” I said.
    We fired the pistols for another half hour, then War showed us how to clean them. Next he moved on to the submachine guns, going through the handling instructions again as we practiced with him. The pistol I could handle, this PDW, not so much.
    Next to me, Van seemed perfectly comfortable with his.
    “Have a lot of submachine gun experience?” I asked him.
    He seemed startled. “What?” He laughed. “No. But it’s a sleek instrument.”
    “I don’t like it.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s too…too mobsterlike. Like modern-day Al Capone.” I made some machine gun noises, which drew me a scowl from the instructors.
    “Mobsterlike, that’s an interesting comparison.”
    “Yeah, well, someone could get carried away. You know, just start shooting up the place.”
    Van held out his hand. “Give me the weapon. You obviously can’t be trusted.”
    I spun it away from him. “I’m just kidding.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “It’s like walking through the china department,” I said, returning to studying my PDW and practicing loading the magazine.
    “Your logic is so easy to follow,” Van said, heavy on the sarcasm. “Maybe you could just fill me in on the meaning.”
    “Haven’t you ever been walking through the fine china department and had to put your hands in your pockets to stifle the urge to run through with your arms outstretched knocking dishes and crystal glasses to the floor?”
    “You’re a sick woman,” he said, but he was smiling.
    “And you’re in denial. Everyone feels that way.”
    “And I still don’t trust you with the weapon. Maybe I should tell