Ours, too, for that matter."
13
THERE WASN'T A sound, just the slow movement of a finger, a gentle silent stroke, and an instant later, the whoosh of rending paper. The man's chest exploded outward, the sharp, jagged edges fanning out from a huge hole, smelling of char.
Gunther nodded to himself, turning away. He said under his breath, "Not bad."
"What do you mean, 'Not bad'?" she said, staring at the target as she walked closer. "How about perfect?" She watched Gunther blow on the muzzle of his Spanish Star Ten, one of the very few European 10mm auto calibre pistols, Gunther had told her in an unusual show of pride. Of all his acquaintances he had the only one, he'd said, which was just as well since he'd also be the only one to shoot it right. She watched him blow on the muzzle again. Naturally there was no smoke to blow away.
She imagined he did it because it was symbolic, a move reminiscent of the gunslingers in the Old West.
He gave her an irritated look but didn't say anything.
"Don't you like to be perfect, Gunther?" She came closer, running her fingers down his forearm, over his hand, to stroke the barrel of the gun.
He stayed silent. She was doing this just to make him crazy, he knew that, but it was tough not to respond in some way, just a small push, just a tiny shove away from him. But he wasn't stupid. He couldn't lay a finger on her, no matter what the provocation. No, he wouldn't even acknowledge that she was playing a game with him.
He had a feeling that Mr. Lord enjoyed these games of hers, even encouraged her. Maybe he was standing in the shadows at the back of the gallery, watching, chewing on an unlit cigarillo, a habit he'd developed since he'd stopped smoking the year before. Gunther slowly pulled away, cradling his gun in his big hands. He liked the feel of the cold smooth steel against his warm palm.
She shook her head, laughing at him. "The way you hold that gun of yours. What is it with you, Gunther?
You think that gun is a woman?"
"No," he said very precisely, "I think this gun is a tool to get my job done." He nodded to her, politely, as always, and turned away from her. He said over his shoulder, pausing just a moment in the gallery doorway, "Mr. Lord appreciates my tool."
She stared at him an instant, then doubled over, hooting with laughter. "I sure hope not," she said. "I sure hope you're wrong about that."
His jaw locked. He felt embarrassment flood him, from inside out, as if his guts had turned red before his face. He hated the feeling. A soft voice said, "Yes, Gunther, I do appreciate your tool. Why don't you go clean your gun. You've used it a great deal today and with excellent effect."
"Yes, sir."
Mason Lord watched his man leave the gun gallery before turning to his wife. His look was indulgent, his voice amused as he said, "You torment poor Gunther."
"Yes, but he's really too easy, Mason. Did you bring my Lady Colt?"
He nodded. "I wish you'd let me teach you how to shoot a real gun, not this ridiculous toy."
Her voice hardened. It was disconcerting in that she looked like an angel, from that smooth thick pale blond hair of hers to the soft blue eyes, the fragile blue of a summer sky. "If I'm close enough, it'll get the job done. I don't want a tool like poor Gunther's. It's not elegant."
He had to agree with that. The recoil from the Spanish Star Ten would also knock her on her butt. He handed her the Lady Colt, stood back, and watched her put six bullets straight through the chest of the target.
She turned, her eyes sparkling, removed her earmuffs, and said in a wicked voice, "And I didn't even have to fondle it."
"No," he said, drawing her to him, "I'm the only thing you fondle."
But though he spoke the words, he wasn't responding to her the way he usually did. Usually she would have been on her back by now. She stepped back, laying her Lady Colt on the counter. "I wonder what your daughter is doing?"
He shook his head. "I called Buzz Carmen in Denver just a little while ago. He said the cops are still acting like idiots, mad at her for saving her own daughter, trying to track her down and this man with her.
Buzz and three others have fanned out now, looking for her. Molly's an amateur. Buzz and his people aren't. They'll find her. He admitted he hadn't known she'd left Denver. He said they'd kept their distance because the cops had hassled them."
"No one's found her except whoever did this. Maybe the bad guys got them, Mason. You have to consider that."
"Molly's smart. She may be an amateur, but she's smart."
"I thought she was like your wife."
He stared at her, then laughed. "Like Alicia? Molly thinks of herself as the ugly duckling compared to my former wife. No, Molly might look like a railroad tie, but she's smart." He frowned a bit. "I suppose she's like me in that. I wish she'd just admit she needs me and get over here. She knows I can protect her and Emma."
"I'll bet this guy who's with them is calling the shots. Don't you think?"
"I don't even have an idea yet who he is." He took her arm. "Let's have one of Miles's margaritas."
It was during that first delicious margarita that Miles said from the doorway, "Sir, Molly's here. Emma too, and a man I don't know."
"It took her long enough to come," Mason Lord said, rising slowly. He set his glass on the marble tabletop as Miles went back out. Then he heard a child's voice, soft, high, not frightened, but wary?
"This is a very big house, Mr. Miles."
"Yes, Emma, it is."
"It's even bigger than the one we had with Daddy. This ceiling just goes up and up."
Then the three of them were standing in the open doorway, Miles behind them, his look questioning. "It's all right, Miles. I'll call if I need you."
Then his daughter turned, her hand on Miles's arm. "Can Emma have a glass of water, Miles?"
Miles looked down at the little girl, who was standing very close to her mother, her hand now held by the big man on her other side. "How about some lemonade instead?"
"Oh yes, Mr. Miles, that would be wonderful."
The three of them turned back to face Mason Lord. Three years since he'd seen Molly or her daughter.
The little girl was the picture of Alicia, but her dark brown hair was her father's, that low-life runty little scum sucker who'd always reminded him of Mick Jagger when he'd been younger. She was six now, tall and skinny, her skin that pearly white that only children seemed to have. She'd be at least as beautiful as Alicia when she grew up.
He'd wanted Molly to come here. He'd told her to come here. Yet now that she was here, her child with her, and that man, whoever the hell he was, he didn't know how to respond. What was he to say to her?
Three years. It had been a long time and she'd been the one who wanted to keep a goodly distance between them. But now things were different. Things had changed, irrevocably.
"Hello, Molly."
"Hello, Dad. You're looking well." She looked beyond at Eve, who was sitting elegant as a Parisian model on a soft yellow brocade love seat. She was wearing tight black jeans and a white blouse tied in a knot over her smooth midriff. "Hello, Eve. I presume you're Eve? I believe we spoke once on the telephone a long time ago."
"Oh, yes, I remember. How delightful to finally meet you in the flesh. And you are Molly, I presume?"
"Yes. Dad, Eve, this is Ramsey Hunt. He's the one who saved Emma. Then I came along. There are maybe five men after us, and they're very good at tracking us. We don't know why they're after us, but we wanted you to know this right away."
The man cleared his throat and said, "We decided to come here, Mr. Lord, because they know who I am now. We just couldn't keep Emma safe. The people hunting us are good, too good. We trust you to keep Emma safe better than the authorities can."