Balance of Power

    The man at the table had thick glasses, slicked-back hair, and distrustful eyes which moved constantly in an expressionless face, taking in all that surrounded him. The only items on his table were P-2s and their accessories.

    "You a dealer?" Bowden asked.

    Fixing on Bowden, the man's restless gaze became a stare. "A collector."

    Bowden drew a breath. "How much for a P-2?"

    "Five-fifty."

    Bowden's hand froze on his wallet. "The Gun Emporium said four hundred."

    One corner of the man's mouth moved, less a smile than an expression of contempt. "The Gun Emporium runs background checks."

    Bowden felt himself tense. "I don't have time for a background check," he blurted.

    The man's stare hardened. To Bowden, his scrutiny felt so intense that he wanted to step back. Then, in a flat voice, the man said, "Neither do I."

    Slowly, Bowden counted out the money and laid it on the table. Then he reopened his copy of The Defender. "Got these?" Bowden asked.

    The man turned the magazine to read it. Beside an advertisement for the gun show was one for Lexington Arms. A photo of the P-2 was captioned "Endangered Species—Banned in California." Below that was the picture of a bullet with grooves carved in its hollow tip, described as "the deadliest handgun bullet available—the ultimate in knockdown capability."

    "Eagle's Claw bullets," the man said. "Cost you extra. They're made to rip your guts out."

    Bowden flinched at the image of a bullet tearing through his flesh and bone and brain. In an ashen tone, he said, "Do I need those?"

    "Only if you want to be sure."

    Bowden was silent. And then, still mute, he slowly nodded.

    The man glanced around him, eyes restless again. "What about a magazine?"

    "What about it?"

    Another flicker of the eyes. "I've got the old kind—holds forty rounds. Don't make them anymore."

    Bowden picked up the P-2, cradling it in the palms of both hands.

    "How much for the magazine?" he asked. His voice was almost a whisper.

* * *

At the moment they were married, Kerry gazed into Lara's face.

    Her eyes met his, steady and sure. Kerry forgot the cameras, the countless millions who watched around the world. He thought only of this instant: Lara's family; their closest friends; the resonance of Father Joe Donegan's words, making this not just a partnership, but a marriage. There was a smile on Lara's mouth, a deep warmth in her eyes.

    Yes, he silently told her. We've earned this. The past is done.

    "I love you," she whispered.

* * *

On the screen, the little prick bent to kiss the ice queen.

    Pen in hand, John Bowden watched in the crummy motel room. Next to him on the worn coverlet was a Lexington P-2, a forty-round magazine, and six cartons of Eagle's Claw bullets.

    His hand began shaking. As the happy couple receded down the aisle, he picked up a spiral notebook.

    He wrote in a fury, scratching out words, replacing them with more words as sharp as knives. By the end tears filled his eyes.

    The letter was a commitment, a pact of love and hatred.

    Folding the lined paper, he sealed it in the envelope he had already addressed. On the television, his brother-in-law and sister-in-law waved from the steps of the church. When his wife appeared, and then Marie, holding flowers, the cheers from the crowd became a shrieking in his brain.

    In agony, Bowden switched off the picture.

    Hastily packing his armaments, he left the hotel without paying and drove through the seedy streets until he saw a mailbox. Parking, he flipped open the lid and paused, letter suspended above the box in a final moment of irresolution. Then he dropped the letter into the iron maw and drove to the Las Vegas Airport.

TWENTY-TWO

For Lara Costello Kilcannon her wedding day became a blur, beginning with a dash from St. Mathew's to form a receiving line in the East Room. But for Peter Lake the day was a series of freezeframes, safety measures checked and rechecked. The concentric circles of security stretched as far as the Washington Monument; the area above the White House was a no-fly zone enforced by fixed-wing helicopters. The demonstrators were confined to a discrete area, their bitterness, expressed in slogans like "Mr. and Mrs. Baby-killer" and "Disarm the Secret Service," kept from view of the wedding party. Snipers on the nearby rooftops trained their sights on the South Lawn; others stared out from the roof of the White House at the area surrounding it. The guests showed identification before passing through magnetometers set up at the East Entrance. The White House itself was divided into five zones, each requiring a badge to enter; all five zones were monitored by a command center beneath the West Wing. Peter stood in the sculpture garden near the East Entrance, scanning his surroundings as he monitored security on a cell phone. Today the Kilcannons were as safe as he could make them, and their secrets were safe, as well.

* * *