Montezuma’s Revenge

“I usually use a sling.” Tony took the wood and blue steel weight of the rifle and hefted it gingerly, trying to remember the drill instilled in his youthful synapses so many years earlier. “The clip goes here?”

“That’s right, very blasted good, and here’s the sling.”

“Prone position was the only way I could fire and qualify.”

“Prone position,” Old Fred agreed in a hollow voice.

It took a while to attach the sling and adjust it to the correct position, to set the sights—Old Fred finally did this himself, muttering under his breath while he did so, load and lock, to sprawl on the hard concrete and keep the wavering target in the sights, to eventually squeeze off the shots at a fresh target. It was with a feeling of satisfaction that Tony climbed to his feet again, rubbing a bit at his sore shoulder. When the target came whizzing back along the wire Old Fred took one look then went into his shop and began rattling tools. Davidson examined it more closely, on both sides in case he had missed something.

“Good?” Tony asked.

“One bullet hit the target, nicked the edge.”

“I’m a little rusty. If I had a chance to brush up ...”

“No, I don’t think that is possible. Not enough time. In any case, the old Mi rifle isn’t the sort of thing that can be hidden in your hip pocket. Any other weapons you are familiar with?”

“Not really.”

“Wait! You’re an Indian, I almost forgot, probably a gee whiz with the tomahawk?”

“Davidson, please, I grew up on a farm, then in a small town. The only tomahawks I ever saw were in a western movie.”

“The bow and arrow maybe or,” still hopeful, “the scalping knife?”

“And maybe the bow and arrow will fit in my hip pocket? The same goes for that scalping knife, which I never heard of before this instant.”

“No knife?”

“Not really. I used to whittle ...”

“That’s it, Fred! The French cigar case, that’s the one we need.”

It dropped onto the counter top with a heavy thud, its weight out of keeping with its innocent appearance. A pocket case of nicely tanned leather, smooth as though from long use. Davidson slipped it open so that the greenish ends of four cigars could be seen and held it out to Tony.

“I normally don’t smoke cigars, but ...”

He pulled at a cigar but it would not come free.

“They are dummies. What you really want to do, as you hold it out, is to press with your thumb here.”

There was a nasty snicking sound and a shining blade, at least six inches long, snapped out of the end of the case causing Tony to start and jump back.

“Very handy thing to have.” Davidson put the point of the knife on the counter and leaned all of his weight upon the case to force the blade back up into position. “A seventy-five-pound spring behind that blade. Just jam it against your target’s side, below the rib cage so it doesn’t get hung up in the bones, and press the release. The spring does all the rest. It will give you security.”

“I would feel far more secure without it.”

This unprofessional remark was ignored and the zip knife-cigar case became his property after he had signed the proper form. Old Fred showed far more enthusiasm as he checked over Davidson’s .38 and oiled the springs on the agent’s fast-draw holster.

“When do we leave?” Tony asked.

“In about an hour.”

“Will I have time to pack a bag?”

“What for? We are just going across the river to McLean, Virginia, to make our contact.”

So much for the travel plans, Tony thought. McLean. The phone rang and Old Fred answered it. In a way it was probably better. Get the matter over with and done and back to work. Fred called Davidson to the phone then entered his shop and closed the door behind himself. Open the G-man badge and fingerprint-kit shop and get it rolling, then ask to be reassigned back to the National Gallery. Anyone could take over once things were rolling, even Sophie for that matter. And it would be a pleasure to see the last of her. Davidson had hung up and stood, frowning with thought.

“McLean has been scrubbed. Our contact took off and they lost him.”

Tony could not help but feel a decided sensation of relief, he had never been enthusiastic about any of this, but his relief was instantly dispelled.

“But he did leave a message. We will receive more information when we get there so it looks as though you can pack that bag after all because we are going on a little trip.”

“New York?”

“Of course not—what gave you that idea? As soon as arrangements are made we are going to Mexico City.”

Three