Gun Work

Finding a photograph had been difficult but not impossible. Rainer was a fiftyish man with hair plugs and one of those skin-cancer sunlamp tans that looked radioactive.

Barney decided to take the guy in his limo, after business hours.

Manhattan was busy losing the last dregs of summer — warm days, cool nights. At a mid-town commercial shipping outlet Barney picked up a clad plastic case festooned with security tape and warning stickers: HIGH-SPEED PHOTOGRAPHIC FILM — EXTREMELY SENSITIVE. The interior surfaces were sheeted in lead foil and the dense, high-impact foam padding ferried Barney’s work kit: a piece, several mags, cleaning kit, extra cash and alternate ID, and a coded emergency cellphone.

The gun was a solid, Nitron-finished P229 Elite in .357 SIG. Karlov liked SIGs and so did Barney. Some guys were Glock men; others swore by the myth-laden Colt, but the names were always spoken with a gravity religious people reserved for saints: Remington, Ruger, Browning, Beretta, Kimber, a whole pantheon of new gods for modern times.

SIG Sauer was proof that Germany had successfully invaded America. The “SIG” was an acronym for Swiss Industrial Company (Schweizerische Industrie-Gesellschaft); the “Sauer” came from the incorporation of German gunmakers J.P. Sauer & Sohn, GmbH, of Eckernförde in the early 1970s. Nineteen eighty-five marked the rebirth of the entire assembly of companies as SIGARMS, which rapidly became a favorite of military and law enforcement during a time when cops were discovering how often they were outgunned in the street. Their handguns were devastatingly well-built and had stopping power to burn. They were also hefty — a real handful — but their actions crisp and their delivery, spot-on. They were no longer made overseas, but in New Hampshire. Barney had never been disappointed by a SIG.

This one featured a short reset trigger that eliminated “trigger slap” and made the pulls short and fast in either single or double action. Karlov had substituted Hogue wraparound grips and beefed the frame by half a pound. There was also a Safariland speed scabbard for concealed carry.

The mags contained Armand’s latest concoction, his version of a 150-grain EPR, or Extreme Penetration Round, that could penetrate 20-gauge steel or most body armor.

Barney had drilled with both this gun and this ammo for a month. It could devastate a kill zone but had the kick of a .22.

His gear installed in a newly-bought attaché case, Barney caught lunch at a Greek diner, barely tasting the food but registering the mild amp of the strong coffee. The nylon steady-straps Karlov had conceived were already around his neck, the thumb loops tucked into his jacket sleeves.

He had thought briefly of wearing gloves with built-in index fingers of foam, slightly curled for a naturalistic look, until he had wandered about in the walking world for awhile and realized no one really took notice of his hands. Some time later, he might have to hide his special attributes, conceal his difference, but he did not feel that way right now. These were his hands; the world would just have to cope. His hands were him — crippled, then altered, then reborn, but still functioning. Like a clip, his hands had so many shots in them before they were exhausted.

He spent an extra day to reliably clock Felix Rainer’s circuit, annotating in-times and out-times. The money-man, per an aggressive transactional profile, did not have time for lunches taken off-site. Evening functions used up 45 minutes in transit from the office to Capitol Towers, allowing for a costume change and spruce-up. Different weapons, evening-dress armament for a different brand of warfare. His chariot was a Corsair stretch that looked to Barney to be armored similarly to the limo he had driven in Mexico. He had two alternating drivers, both graduates of the school of physical threat — skintight suits over imposing bodies, packing hip holsters. The wait zone was a gated garage at Capitol, probably leading to a private elevator. Too many cameras there; too much exposure.

Okay, so it was a quitting-time date, then.

Barney had billeted himself in a mid-range hotel in the upper 50s full of foreign tourists or businessmen. Easy to blend, there. Since his credit card was imaginary, that bill did not matter. He could have watched all the cable porn he wanted. Content did not interest him but he did keep the TV on, volume dialed almost to zero, for the duration of his stay. It was another presence in the room and a harmless one, something he had keenly missed in Mexico, where another presence usually signaled yet another beating.