Free THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) by Lawrence de Maria Page A

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    Recently, he’d been carrying a Hechler-Koch and had grown quite fond of the powerful automatic. He had become so proficient with it that the N.Y.P.D. cops and F.B.I. agents who used the secret gun range in the basement of an old Borders bookstore on 21st Street and Sixth Avenue in Manhattan had become wary of his invitations for a friendly shoot-off. They didn’t begrudge Scarne’s privileged access to the Flatiron District facility; he was, after all, something of a pal of the Police Commissioner. They also didn’t really mind the $20 he invariably took from them; he was a good sport who usually then bought breakfast, lunch or some drinks, spending much more than the money he won. But all of them considered themselves crack shots — they wouldn’t be at Dick Condon’s “private” shooting gallery if they weren’t — but the son of a bitch could shoot the balls off a fruit fly. Their groupings were tight; Scarne’s were microscopically bunched.
    For no reason he could explain, he now went to the glass-fronted lawyer’s bookcase that had been his grandfather’s. Above it was a John Noble lithograph Dudley Mack had given him, saying “the man who owned it won’t be needing it anymore.” Entitled Ah! Linoleumville , it portrayed men in the 1890’s working on a wooden barque sitting in dry dock between an old Staten Island ferry and another tall ship that appeared to be a Yankee Clipper. Now called Travis, Linoleumville was on the northern shoreline of Staten Island on Fresh Kills. Despite its dubious provenance, the valuable lithograph was a favorite of Scarne’s. One of the famous maritime artist’s best works, the lithograph went well with the room’s nautical motif. Evelyn was frequently after Scarne to come up with a new decorating style but he had so far held his ground.
    Scarne’s love of the sea came naturally. He now carefully moved the silver frame that held the photo of his grandfather, Capitano di vascello Giacomo Scarne, and lifted the Noble lithograph away. He opened the small safe that had been hidden and removed a locked metal case resting atop a note. The case was a recent addition. Scarne, who loved any new technology, pressed his right index finger against a small translucent pad on the top of the box and was rewarded with a muted click as the lock disengaged. He smiled. It always worked, but it also always surprised him that it did. 
    He took out the the blue-black Bersa Thunder and hefted it, as always impressed by its light weight and balance. Only 23 ounces, the Argentine automatic closely resembled the German Walther on which it was modeled, both in appearance and in performance. In some respects the .380 Bersa was a superior weapon. The Argentinians had engineered the Bersa so that its blowback action did not occasionally nick a shooter’s hand on recoil.
    The Bersa had married well with a Brugger & Hock silencer that was long gone, probably rusting in a mangrove swamp in the Florida Keys, where Scarne had last used the gun during the Ballantrae affair. The only reason Scarne had the Bersa was that it had been sent to him, as a gesture of respect, by Andriy Boyko, the Ukrainian mobster who took it from his hand that night in the Keys and decided to let him live.
    Scarne reached in the safe and took out the note that had come with the Bersa in an unmarked package. He smiled grimly as he read it:
    “You have the balls of a Ukrainian. A firearm without serial numbers may be valuable to you. It is only a piece of metal. It has no memory. Nor should you. I would advise you to use it soon. But if you and I should meet again, let us try not to kill each other.”
    There was no signature, just the letter “B” .
    Scarne had not fired the weapon in anger since. He’d brought it to an underground gun dealer in Chinatown who owed him a favor for scaring away some juvenile Tong thugs trying to extort him. The dealer arranged to have a phony serial number stamped on the