The Glock Model 20 had been Gant’s weapon of choice and although initially Neeley had preferred the Model 17, the smaller 9mm version, Gant had finally convinced her to go for the larger caliber. His point was that 9mm was a magic number in pistols and many variations of body armor were designed for the magic number and that the 10mm slug would penetrate and kill where the 9mm would just piss someone off.
The Model 20 held 15 rounds of 10mm ammunition. It had an integrated laser sight built into gun, replacing the recoil spring guide assembly, just below the barrel. Touching the trigger activated the laser. With no external hammer, the gun could smoothly be drawn without catching, and the safety was built into the trigger allowing rapid fire. The finish was flat black, designed not to absorb light.
Gant had also taught her that the gun was only fifty percent of the equation. The bullets were the other half. The rounds in the gun had been handcrafted by Gant for high muzzle velocity and penetrating power. She had several spare magazines loaded with the same. She also had his loading equipment in the bed of the truck and had spent many hours at his side practicing the art until her efforts matched his.
Neeley threw the truck into gear and headed for the Interstate. She had a long drive ahead of her. As her tires rumbled, she kept her eyes on the road but her mind drifted to more memories of Berlin.
After defusing the bomb and leaving Templehoff, Gant took Neeley to a part of Berlin she had not seen during the time she had been there with Jean-Philippe. The sticker on the car windshield brought them a wave through at the base security checkpoint and suddenly they were no longer in Berlin or even in Germany. The American sector could have been any American army post back in the States.
They drove past large housing complexes and schools, small shops and administrative offices. Gant slowly pulled into a large parking lot and took an empty slot close to the building marked commissary. He left her the keys and promised to return quickly. She watched him disappear into the cavernous building and began to shiver. Jean-Philippe had urged her into the cut-offs and t-shirt that morning and she was beginning to understand why. He had hoped any suspicion would be allayed by the promising scenery of her bare skin. Now her skin was mottled by goose bumps and she felt more alone than ever before. She had no idea who the stranger was, only that she trusted him so far.
She watched the shoppers leaving the grocery store and felt her isolation grow. Who were all these women in khaki slacks and ponytails, their toddlers clutching tightly to hands or pants legs, any surface that offered protection? The people Jean-Philippe had associated with had all flashed large amounts of money. They wouldn’t have been caught dead in the outfits these people wore.
When Gant walked back through the electronic doors, Neeley studied her benefactor as he strode toward the car. He appeared to be in his early thirties and was large and powerfully built. He toted the bags as though they were empty, all the while scanning the area to his front and side. She supposed he was handsome in a masculine, rugged fashion but to Neeley that was no comparison to Jean-Philippe's delicate features and long curling hair. The thought of her lover's face rising above her brought tears to her eyes and she was using her fingers to wipe them away as the car door opened.
If Gant noticed her crying, he said nothing but he did nod toward the food as if it would banish her sorrow. "I wasn't expecting any company so the house is kind of bare."
Neeley grew nervous at the mention of his house.
As if sensing this, he offered her a large hand. "My name is Anthony Gant, but everyone just calls me Gant."
She took his hand with trepidation and mumbled, "Neeley."
"Well, Neeley, it seems we've been tossed together for a while. If it makes you feel any better, what happened this morning will be our secret. I've had stranger mornings."
Neeley looked at him. "If that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't. It's definitely been the strangest morning of my life and strange isn't even coming close. I could have been responsible for hundreds of deaths today. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"
Gant stared at her hard. "Actually, I do."
The conversation ended with that and they avoided even glancing at each other during the short trip to Gant's house.
Gant's home turned out to be part of a large multi-family dwelling made from the same yellow stone as the commissary. There were children everywhere. As Neeley and Gant walked the chalk-streaked sidewalk to his door, they dodged bikes, skates and curious glances.
"This is the last place I'd expect a man like you to live," Neeley said. "Isn't your wife going to be surprised?"
Gant paused as he unlocked the door. "My wife's not here."
He pushed her through the door into the living room of the small apartment. "She left a few weeks ago and went back to the States with my son." He continued to talk as he carried the bags into the kitchen and unpacked them. "I can't really blame her. I've been gone eleven out of the last twelve months. Her note said if she was going to live alone, then she wanted to live alone. I was going to fly over and plead my case when I saw you at the airport."
He shook his head at her look of surprise. "Don't worry. You haven't altered my family's life plan or anything. She wouldn't have come back and I was just going for myself. You know, to say I did, that I tried. My son barely knows who I am and the only way that would change is if I became someone I'm not. Sometimes it pays to know one’s limitations as much as one’s capabilities."
Neeley sank down on the Swedish modern couch and closed her eyes. There was something disturbing about what he said and yet he had saved her life and many more. She leaned her head back and was sound asleep when he returned with eggs and toast. He gently woke her. After eating, he took her to a small bedroom and she immediately crawled into the bed he offered and fell asleep once more.
She slept a long time, waking only once to note her surroundings. She was in a child's room, in the bottom bunk. She could distinguish the outlines of toys and spaceships and when she lifted her head to adjust the pillow, the faint moonlight fell on the happy faces of the most recent Star Wars characters. She fell back asleep as easily as throwing a switch.
When she awoke again it was light outside and there was a persistent tapping at the door.
Gant's voice was muffled but audible. "Neeley, are you awake?"
She threw back the comforter and tried to sit up but banged her head on the top bunk in the process. In the daylight she could see the entire room was homage to Star Wars. Neeley felt sadness for the little boy who had left everything he loved. She knew exactly what that boy was feeling.
She walked out of the room. Gant was seated in a chair facing the front window, his fingers steepled, a cup of steaming coffee next to him, and one for her on a small card table.
"Do you know why you were given that bomb?" Gant asked.
Neeley suddenly felt tired despite her night's rest. She told Gant about Jean-Philippe, the strange people he associated with, and the last couple of years of her life. If he was surprised at any of it, he didn't show it.
"I don't know why Jean-Philippe wanted me dead," she concluded, which brought a ghost of a smile to Gant's lips.
"I doubt you were the objective of the bomb," he said. “You say he worked as an oil broker?”
“Yes,” Neeley said. “There’s a large black market for oil that can’t go through normal channels, for example that coming out of Iraq despite the embargo. Jean-Philippe would put together the deals. He worked with a loose-knit group of men who did this.”
Gant had nodded. “The shadow world. There’s one for every niche and they all touch each other at some point.”