Rescue by J A Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson

Author:J A Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson [Konrath, J A & Peterson, Ann Voss]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-08-12T18:30:00+00:00

Tequila

After a quick stop at Hammett's hotel, Tequila took her back to the Boscolo Exedra. He waited on the scooter while she went in and bought the Stechkin and Nagant. It only took five minutes. Then she directed him to a large park, the Villa Borghese gardens. Tequila parked on the street and they walked among the trees. The snow from the previous day had melted—apparently it didn't snow in Rome often—but it was still chilly enough that the park was empty. They treaded in, several acres deep, until Tequila couldn't see Rome anymore. Only trees and long shadows as the sun waved goodbye to the day. Through a clearing, across a pond, was the Temple of Aesculapius, but Tequila only had eyes for the bag Hammett carried. The designer bag with the weapons in it.

They walked into a clearing, and Hammett set the bag on the grass.

"What's the range on this thing?" Hammett said, pulling out the Stechkin and weighing it in her palm.

"Everything I've read says it's accurate to fifty yards. Assuming it functions and the sights are adjusted."

She planted one foot in front of the other and brought her left hand up under her right in a Weaver stance, taking aim at a pine tree twenty yards in the distance. When she squeezed the trigger, the gun made a faint click and a small divot appeared on the trunk. It was even quieter than Tequila expected. In a crowded room, no one would hear the shot.

Hammett smiled wide. "That is too cool."

She fired again, the second shot an inch from the first. Then she changed to a one-handed grip and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. All five of her shots were within the radius of a silver dollar.

Very good shooting.

She handed the weapon to Tequila, butt first. He opened the cylinder, and it swung out at a horizontal forty-five degree angle. It had no ejector rod, and he pulled out the moon clip and five spent cartridges with his fingernails, then popped in a new one Hammett handed over.

Such an ingenious design.

So beautiful.

So horrible.

His thumb found the safety—an unusual feature on a revolver—and he cocked the hammer, aimed, and tested to make sure the gun didn't fire. It didn't. He used an isosceles stance, feet parallel to his shoulder rather than one in front of the either.

The first round he squeezed off hit the tree truck six inches above Hammett's grouping. Tequila fired four more times, making his original hole larger with each shot. Just like hammering a nail.

"Jesus," Hammett said. "When you go to the firing range, do you only need one target? Just keep shooting through the bull's-eye?"

"No. I hang the target sideways."

"In profile?"

"Yes."

"So you shoot the paper in half when the edge is facing you?"

Tequila nodded.

"How thick is that? Point two millimeters?"

"Point one."

"Is it wrong that I'm turned on right now?" Hammett asked.

"Yes."

Practically everything about Hammett was wrong. But he kept that thought to himself.

Tequila traded Hammett the Stechkin for the Nagant.

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