The man shook his head and laughed. "Nobody's going to arrest one of us for driving out to a hunt somewhere, with or without this new bill you're talking about."

Henry shrugged. Dream on, Jim he thought silently. Stupid laws apply to everyone, even rich white people. "Maybe not," Henry said, "but Volkmer-McClure makes it legal, so you don't have to worry. The other main provision is that all the recordkeeping requirements and interstate commerce restrictions on ammo are lifted."

"And Halle-fuckin'-lujah to that," Stokely Meier said. The Gun Control Act of 1968 had forced all stores and places of business that sold ammunition to keep detailed, permanent records of every purchase and purchaser of handgun ammunition. In eighteen years, over fifty billion rounds of handgun ammunition had been sold, but the record-keeping requirement had yet to account for a single criminal being brought to justice.

"There's a few other things in the bill, mostly to let old stuff get imported again, like Krags and Mausers." Henry smiled inwardly as he thought of his first centerfire, the 8mm Model 98 Mauser he had bought when he was ten years old. He still put a few hundred rounds through it each year.

"Anything bad in it?" one of the men asked.

"Not that I know of. I think I would have heard if there was. It's just straight repeal of some bad stuff." Henry Bowman was right. The Firearms Owner's Protection Act, which was the official title of the

Volkmer-McClure bill, contained no new infringements. That would hold true right up until thirty seconds before the bill was passed by the United States Congress.

"Okay, let me recap what we know and how we're going to proceed," Special Agent Gordon McNeill said as he stared at the thirteen FBI agents under his supervision. "These two men have hit five banks or armored cars that we know of in a six-month period. In two of those five instances, they shot guards without provocation. One of them they shot three times in the back. They also shot two citizens executionstyle down in the Everglades to get their cars." He looked at each of his men. "These guys like to kill people," he added meaningfully.

"On October sixteenth, two men in ski masks hit a Wells Fargo armored car parked in front of a WinnDixie on Dixie Highway. They had a shotgun and a .45, yelled 'Freeze!', then shot the driver in the leg and ran off without getting any money.

"November eighth, two men in ski masks grabbed two employees at the drive-in of the Florida National Bank on Dixie Highway. They never got in the bank because the teller fumbled with his keys, but they got away with ten thousand dollars that was being brought from the bank to the drive-in window.

"An hour and a half later on the same day, two men in ski masks hit the Professional Savings Bank on Dixie Highway, eighteen blocks away from Florida National. They did a little better at this one-forty-one thousand dollars." One of the other agents whistled at the dollar amount. "Right. Witnesses said the men were armed with a large-frame revolver and an AR-15, and escaped in a 1977 Monte Carlo." McNeill stopped to clear his throat.

"January tenth of this year, two men, again in dark clothing and again wearing ski masks, held up the Brink's armored car in front of the Barnett Bank on Dixie highway. One of them shot the guard in the back. When the guard collapsed, the other shot him twice more in the back with an AR-15 and took his gun. This time they got $54,000 in cash." This figure drew even more murmurs of appreciation. "Witnesses saw the men escape in a beige Monte Carlo with a light-colored vinyl top. One of them followed the car, and-"

"What?" one of the agents exclaimed.

"Yes. One of the witnesses followed the two men and saw them abandon the Monte Carlo and continue their flight in a white or beige 3/4-ton pickup truck. He thinks it was a Ford."

"What, he didn't follow that one, too? And tell us where they went? Or better yet, arrest 'em while he was at it?" Gordon McNeill said nothing. In a few moments he had their attention again.

"The abandoned Monte Carlo was recovered. It was registered to a Mr. Aureliano Briel. Mr. Briel's son, Emelio Briel, was reported missing in October. Emilio Briel was last seen on October fourth, when he took the Monte Carlo and told his father he was going target shooting with a .22 rifle in the Everglades. On March first, skeletal remains of a decomposed body were found seven-tenths of a mile south of the Tamiami Trail. Analysis confirmed that it was the body of Emilio Briel, who had been killed by a largecaliber handgun wound to the head.

"On March twelfth, we got a break. Mr. Jose Colazzo was out target shooting on a small lake south of the Tamiami Trail, in the same general area that Briel's body had been found. Colazzo was accosted by two men driving a white Ford pickup who held him at gunpoint, took his money, guns, and keys, and shot him several times. They left him for dead and took his car. Colazzo survived. He has given us a description of the two men, and you have the artist's sketches in front of you. Colazzo's car is a black 1979 Chevrolet Monte Carlo, license plate NTJ 891."

"These scrotes got a thing about Monte Carlos or what?" one of the agents joked. Supervisory Agent McNeill ignored him.

"Seven days after the attempted murder of Jose Colazzo," McNeill went on, "on March nineteenth, two men wearing ski masks and dark clothing robbed the Barnett Bank on Dixie Highway." "Same bank as before?" one of the agents asked.

"Right. They got away with $8,000 this time, and their getaway car was a black two-door Chevrolet Monte Carlo." Gordon McNeill looked at the thirteen agents in front of him. "All five of these bank and armored car robberies were committed in a small area along Dixie Highway, by two heavily armed men in ski masks. The FBI is certain that the same two men committed all five robberies, and were also responsible for the murder of Briel and the attempted murder of Jose Colazzo. Accordingly, the fourteen of us are going to set up a ten-car rolling stakeout along Dixie Highway with the goal of spotting and apprehending these two assholes. We've got two good vehicle descriptions and one license plate number, and we'll be in constant radio contact with each other. We've got a good chance of finding these scumbags."

"You really think they'll be in the same car, and not have ditched it, or changed the plates?" asked one of the agents. "After this much time, I mean?"

"Good chance of it. Briel's beige Monte Carlo was abandoned January 10. That was more than three months after Briel was killed and the car stolen from him, and it still had the original plates on it. They ditched that car only after shooting the guard. On the bank job three weeks ago, no one was shot. These guys may still be driving that car around. They think Colazzo's dead, remember." McNeill flipped to a map and went on to the next phase of his briefing.

"Here's how we're going to work it. Tomorrow morning, we're going to spread the ten cars out along a fivemile stretch of Dixie Highway, and..."

The briefing session continued for another half hour.

"Attention all units, we are behind a black vehicle, two-door, Florida license NTJ 891, we're headed south on South Dixie...North on South Dixie," he corrected, "it's a black Monte Carlo, two males in it, NTJ 891." Ben Grogan had spotted Colazzo's stolen car and was directly behind it. The FBI had lucked into the two bank robbers in the first half-hour of the first day of the surveillance. Grogan was calling all the other cars on the rolling stakeout.

"Oooh, that's it, lift up a little...yeah, right there," the FBI agent told the waitress, then resumed his thrusting. She was lying on her back on the table in the closed-off back room of the restaurant on Dixie Highway. "You like starting the day off this way, honey?" he asked teasingly.

"She can't talk with her mouth full," laughed his partner on the other side of the table. "But I'd say she's enjoying it."

"Mmm-hmm," the girl mumbled in agreement.

"Watch those teeth, now, darlin'," the second man said as he pushed down her bra and squeezed the woman's full breasts.

After a few minutes, the first agent raised his hand up for a 'high five'. The second agent saw this and mirrored his partner's move. "Readyyyy-shift?' the first man yelled as he slapped his partner's hand. The two agents simultaneously disengaged themselves from the woman's vagina and mouth, and rapidly exchanged positions.

Cop groupies are great the first man thought with a grin. And it's good to be able to share it with your partner. He briefly thought of the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, and a look of concern passed over his face. The two weapons were lying underneath two sets of body armor on the back seat of the unmarked sedan out in the parking lot. Hell, nobody's going to steal them in broad daylight. Not in the next hour or two, at least he decided, and returned his concentration to the situation at hand. Much later, after the two agents had finished their exertions, had a few cups of coffee with their friend, and returned to the parking lot, the first man would discover that he had been right. No one had given the parked sedan or its contents a second look.

"They're making a right turn on 117th...right on 117th," Jerry Dove, Grogan's partner continued over the radio. "We're burned. They're onto us. They know we're cops. Moving around, lots of activity in the front seat."

Special Agent Richard Manauzzi had been close by, and in less than a minute he had maneuvered his vehicle in behind Grogan and Dove's car. Within moments, agents John Hanlon and Edmundo Mireles, in their unmarked sedan, had joined the other two FBI cars following the black Monte Carlo.

"Keep on 'em," Agent McNeill, the supervisor, said on the radio to the other cars when he heard the exchange. "I'm heading north on Dixie. I'll turn east on 120th and parallel you." The Monte Carlo, however, had made one right turn and was about to make another.

"We're turning west on 120th Street," Dove, in the lead FBI car, announced. Platt and Matix in the Monte Carlo, followed by three FBI cars, were about to pass Supervisor McNeill, who was headed in the opposite direction on 120th Street.

"Hey, we're right behind you," John Hanlon, driving the third FBI car called. "If you want to do it, let's do it."

The FBI supervisor saw the four cars headed towards him. Agent McNeill looked at the driver of the black Monte Carlo and saw what he would later describe as 'the face of a man on a mission.' He also saw that the man in the passenger seat was putting a magazine into what McNeill recognized was a Ruger Mini-14 rifle.

"Guy in the passenger seat has a long gun he's loading, looks like a Mini-14," McNeill called over the radio as he passed the Monte Carlo and the three FBI cars. McNeill braked his sedan to make a U-turn and join the other three federal vehicles as the Monte Carlo turned left and began to head south on 82nd Avenue. "Let's do it," McNeill ordered over the radio. "Felony car stop. Let's do it."

John Hanlon, behind the wheel of the second FBI car, drew his Smith & Wesson .357 magnum and put it on the seat beside him. Then he stomped on the throttle and pulled around Ben Grogan and Jerry Dove's vehicle until he and his partner, Ed Mireles, were parallel to the black Monte Carlo. Hanlon rammed the Monte Carlo, trying to force it off the right side of the road. Jerry Dove, in turn, pulled around both John Hanlon's sedan and the black Monte Carlo, and pulled directly in front of the two felons, to keep them from outrunning the car that was trying to force them off the road. Richard Manauzzi, in the third FBI vehicle, was now immediately behind the black Chevrolet. Michael Platt and Edward Matix were boxed in.

Those two have a clear shot at blasting all four agents Manauzzi thought grimly as he drew his revolver and put it on his lap. Got to distract them. He floored the accelerator and rammed Platt and Matix's black Monte Carlo from behind.

When Agent Manauzzi slammed his sedan into the back of the Monte Carlo, he caused several things to happen. The first was that as per Newton's Law, Manauzzi's revolver flew off his lap and the driver's door flew open. Manauzzi was carrying no backup gun, and a feeling of horror suffused him as he visualized his only weapon lying yards behind him, out in the street.

The force of the impact also disengaged the Monte Carlo from Hanlon's vehicle, shoving it forward. Matix, the Monte Carlo's driver, had cranked his wheels to the left to counteract Hanlon's attempt to push him off the road. Thus, when Manauzzi's car bunted the Chevy on ahead, the black two-door immediately spun out counterclockwise. Matix rode the slide back onto the pavement and punched the throttle when the car was facing in the opposite direction. Platt and Matix were now heading back north on 82nd Avenue.

Hanlon and Mireles' car, on the other hand, had had its wheels cranked right, to force the black car off the road. When the Monte Carlo was knocked clear, Hanlon's sedan spun to the right in the gravel at the side of the road, and slammed head-on into a concrete wall. Newton's Law was still in effect. As with Manauzzi's gun, Agent Hanlon's revolver flew off the front seat and out of reach in the impact.

Agent Richard Manauzzi saw the black Monte Carlo headed towards him. The two men were about to escape, and he was now unarmed. He knew Grogan and Dove were up ahead of him, and they still had to get turned around. Not this time, pal he thought as he spun his wheel hard left and rammed into the driver's side of the approaching Monte Carlo, forcing it into a tree on the side of the road. His own car slewed to a stop parallel to the black two-door, in a position similar to two cars side-by-side in a parking lot.

Agent Manauzzi was hyperventilating as he looked over at the Monte Carlo. The driver's window of the black car was rolled down. One man was bringing a 12-gauge shotgun to bear on him and the other was raising a rifle. It was then that the full weight of realization hit FBI Agent Manauzzi: I am in deep shit. He flung open the door of his sedan and ducked his head as he bailed out of the car. The shotgun boomed and the muzzle blast of the .223 rifle rang in his ears as the two men fired at him from six feet away. The shots had to come through the glass on the passenger side of Agent Manauzzi's sedan, however. The highvelocity rifle bullets fragmented, and the shotgun pellets were slowed. Manauzzi was taking his first step when he felt lead fragments dig into his shoulder and torso. He gritted his teeth and kept running for the other side of the street, where he hoped to find his lost revolver.

Supervisory Agent Gordon NcNeill, who had passed the others in the opposite direction less than a minute before, had gotten his car turned around and was almost to the bank robbers' vehicle when he saw Manauzzi force the Monte Carlo into the tree. He swung his car in at an angle to Manauzzi's sedan. A few seconds before, McNeill had managed to throw his vest on over his head, but had not been able to secure it with the velcro straps to his torso. Like all of the agents, he had been carrying body armor. Also like all of the agents but one, he had not been wearing it, but had left it lying on the seat of his car.

McNeill knew that the two men were already shooting at him, for he could hear the bullets striking his car even before he came to a stop. He wanted the shotgun that was lying on the floor of the back seat, but when shots through his windshield sprayed him with glass fragments, Gordon McNeill changed his mind. He couldn't afford to expose himself by retrieving the more effective weapon, so he drew his 2 1/2" Smith & Wesson .357 magnum and ran for cover. His unsecured bullet-resistant vest flapped around him as McNeill took a position behind the engine block of Manauzzi's wrecked car. That put Supervisory Agent Gordon McNeill about eight feet from Platt and Matix, directly facing the deafening muzzle blasts coming from their guns.

As McNeill exited his car and ran for cover, more agents joined in the fray. Ben Grogan, who had gotten his car turned around and had resumed pursuit, slammed on the brakes and brought his white Buick to a screeching halt behind the black Monte Carlo. Newton's Law reasserted itself once more. Under the car's abrupt deceleration, Grogan's eyeglasses flew off his face and lodged under the sedan's brake pedal. Grogan and Dove both jumped out of the car and started firing at the men in the black Monte Carlo, although Grogan was essentially blind. Neither Grogan nor Dove, however, had lost their weapons. Each man was carrying a Smith & Wesson model 459 semiauto that held fifteen rounds of 9mm ammo.

Platt and Matix could not open either door of their stolen vehicle to escape. The right one was caved in and jammed shut from the crash, and the left was blocked by Manauzzi's FBI car. As McNeill, Grogan, and Dove began firing at the two men trapped in the front seat of the Monte Carlo, Hanlon and Mireles jumped out of their car, the one that had spun and crashed into the concrete wall.

Mireles was carrying a Remington 870 shotgun as he ran over to join Gordon McNeill. Hanlon, who had lost his main gun in the crash, drew his 5-shot Chief's Special backup gun from his ankle holster and ran to join Ben Grogan, who was firing blindly from the left rear of his Buick.

As Mireles ran towards McNeill, he realized his shotgun was pointing straight at his fellow agent, and he instinctively took his finger out of the trigger guard and raised the muzzle towards the sky just as Platt fired his Ruger .223 at the center of Mireles' unprotected chest. The move saved Mireles' life. Raising the shotgun put Mireles' left arm directly in front of his heart. The high-velocity bullet struck Mireles' upraised forearm, shattering both bones and turning the flesh almost inside out. The 280-lb. agent fell to the ground and looked at his ruined left arm. White bones were sticking out for a distance of over three inches. Puta! It's turned inside out. Have to be amputated he thought, then turned his mind to matters he could control. Funny how it doesn't hurt Mireles realized distractedly.

As Mireles hit the asphalt, Platt continued to fire his .223. One of his next few shots hit Gordon McNeill's gun hand, throwing the agent's right arm to a vertical position. Oh, Jesus! McNeill thought as he looked at the horrendous ruin of his right hand. Well, it doesn't hurt, and I didn't let go of my gun. He brought the gun back down and kept firing at Platt and Matix. The FBI agent watched Matix jerk when one of the Winchester Silvertips out of his .357 magnum hit him. Then the agent's gun snapped on a fired case. Gordon McNeill felt utterly deflated. I'm empty, and they're both still firing. He forced himself to run to his own car to reload. His mind was fully occupied, and he did not notice Ed Mireles heave himself to his feet and follow him, carrying the shotgun and cradling his ruined left arm.

"Where is everybody?" Ben Grogan screamed from the left side of his white Buick, behind the black Monte Carlo. He was firing his Model 459 in the direction of Platt and Matix, but he could not see without his glasses. His partner, Jerry Dove, crouched behind the right side of their car and continued to fire 9mm bullets out of his own 15-shot Model 459. So far he had not hit either of the two men in the black Monte Carlo.

This is a fucking nightmare thought Agent Ron Risner. He and his partner Gil Arrantia had stopped their car across the street and slightly north, to block an escape. Risner, who had been riding in the passenger seat, was now crouched behind the right front fender of the car and firing his 15-shot 459 over the hood at the two men in the Chevrolet. Risner was the only agent who had been wearing his vest when the two FBI vehicles had rammed the black Monte Carlo.

Gil Arrantia had remained in the driver's seat of the car, and was firing his .38 revolver over the windowsill. The two agents were a little over twenty yards away from Platt and Matix. This was much farther away from the two bank robbers than any of the other agents in the shootout.

Matix realized he was in a two-door coffin with a vinyl top. He slammed his shoulder into the driver's door of the Monte Carlo and got it open enough to squeeze out.

"Get out the window-I'll try to cover you," Matix said to his friend, then slid out of the car and sent a load of buckshot at Grogan and Dove's car to pin them down. Michael Platt began to climb out the Monte Carlo's passenger-side window with his Mini-14 and several spare magazines.

Perfect thought agents Risner and Dove from two very different locations as they saw the man climbing out the car window. Both fired their S&W 459 semiautos at Platt's center of mass. Platt felt Risner's Silvertip plow into his chest muscle, and he let out a grunt at the force of the impact. Fucker Platt thought, just as the second Winchester Silvertip, this one from Jerry Dove's gun, hit him in the arm and tore through the brachial artery leading to his heart. Michael Platt, his arm wound pumping blood like a small hose, rolled across the hood of a Cutlass sedan parked next to the Monte Carlo and landed on his feet. He was still holding his rifle and his loaded magazines as he crouched behind the vehicle.

As Matix exited the driver's side of the Monte Carlo while firing his shotgun, Gil Arrantia across the street realized his own gun was dry, and he flattened himself on the seat to reload his revolver from a belt pouch.

Gordon McNeill was lying on the ground by his car. Got to keep from being hit McNeill thought as he saw bullets kicking up dust around him. He began rolling back and forth on the ground between his own car and Manauzzi's vehicle, trying to reload his revolver with his ruined right hand as he did so. Blood and bone fragments were getting into the rear of the cylinder, and McNeill realized in dismay that his gun might not close. Got to get the shotgun he told himself. Can't take the time to get all six in this cylinder. The agent stopped after he had put two rounds in the gun. That'll do 'til I get the 870 he thought and began to close the revolver. Which way does it turn? he asked himself, then snapped it shut so that the two cartridges were to the right of the firing position when viewed from the rear. He pushed himself to his feet to get to the shotgun lying in the back seat of his car.

When McNeill had been lying on the ground, his vehicle had concealed him from Michael Platt. Now he was exposed. McNeill realized in horror that the man was aiming his Ruger Mini-14 straight in his face from fifteen feet away, and was actually grinning at him.

Michael Platt, with two Winchester Silveitips in his chest and his heart pumping blood relentlessly out of his body, smiled at Gordon McNeill. Platt squeezed the trigger of his rifle three times in rapid succession. McNeill felt the air from one .223 bullet passing, and a flick to his ear from the second, before the third slug struck him in the side of the neck. The bullet ricocheted off his spinal column and lodged in his chest cavity. McNeill dropped as if he had been pole-axed.

Gordon McNeill lay on the asphalt, completely conscious but unable to move anything below his neck. I'm paralyzed the supervisor thought. I'm paralyzed from the neck down and these two are going to kill my men and get away. For the first time in the twenty-one years since he had joined the FBI, Gordon McNeill felt utterly and completely helpless.

Michael Platt thought he had just killed the agent. He took a few steps back, unaware that he was bleeding to death. The FBI would later claim that the wound from Dove's bullet would not have been survivable even if Platt had surrendered immediately and been air-lifted to a hospital. This was not strictly correct. If Michael Platt had pinched off the wound (and somehow managed to avoid further bullets while retreating to safety) he could have survived.

As it was, Michael Platt stood under some trees, out of sight of the agents who were pinned down by the shotgun fire from his partner Matix. Time to smoke the rest of these pricks he thought as he reloaded his Mini-14 with a fresh magazine and started walking towards where Grogan, Dove, and Hanlon were crouched behind Grogan's Buick.

Jerry Dove ejected the empty magazine from his S&W 459 and inserted a full 14-round replacement. He stayed crouched behind the Buick and resumed firing.

"Where is everybody?" Ben Grogan shouted again. His voice was full of sorrow and frustration. He was standing at the left rear of the white Buick, firing his 15-shot S&W Model 459 towards the sound of Matix's shotgun. Ben Grogan was utterly blind without his glasses.

Agent Hanlon, seven feet to Grogan's right and crouched behind the right taillight of the white Buick, saw Michael Platt emerge from behind cover and come towards the three agents who were firing at him and his partner. Hanlon emptied his five-shot Chief's Special revolver at Platt. He cursed himself once more for losing his main weapon when he ran his car into the concrete wall. Hanlon dropped into a crouch and started to reload his gun when a slug from Platt's rifle just missed his arm. He felt it pass, and moved to the left. Platt's next shot shattered Hanlon's right hand, tore through his forearm, and lodged in his bleep.

"Aagh!" Hanlon screamed in agony as he rolled over onto his back. "I'm hit!"

Ron Risner, across the street, had emptied his 15-shot Model 459 at Michael Platt. His partner, Gil Arrantia, had emptied his revolver twice, and had been wounded, though not critically. Risner drew his 2"

Arrantia, had emptied his revolver twice, and had been wounded, though not critically. Risner drew his 2" round box of ammunition kept in every FBI vehicle.

Risner fired one shot from his 2" Model 60, and realized he could not shoot the short weapon accurately at that distance. He put a fresh 14-round magazine in his 459 and extended the weapon in front of him just as Hanlon went down.

Oh, fuck Risner thought as his stomach turned over. Michael Platt had left his position behind the parked car and was headed for the white Buick that Ben Grogan and Jerry Dove were hiding behind. He was firing his Mini-14 as he approached. Ron Risner could not shoot because from Risner's vantage point across the street, Grogan and Dove were both between him and Michael Platt, directly in Risner's line of fire.

Hanlon was lying on his back at the rear of the Buick, clutching his arm. He turned his head so he could see underneath the car. He saw Platt's feet, wearing Nike running shoes, walking towards him. Hanlon dug his heels into the asphalt and began to slide himself towards Jerry Dove and away from the approaching Platt.

"He's coming behind you! He's coming behind you!" Risner screamed from across the street. Grogan and Dove had all their attention focused elsewhere, and they did not hear him.

Platt swung his rifle on Ben Grogan. "Oh, my God," Grogan screamed, and then fell dead. Platt had put three slugs into his torso from seven feet away.

"See how your wife likes this," Michael Platt said as he leaned over the fender of the Buick. Platt fired his Mini-14 once into Hanlon's groin from a distance of about five feet. The .223 bullet missed Hanlon's penis, but struck the joint of his pelvic bone, sending a hail of bone fragments into his guts. Platt then turned his attention to Jerry Dove.

"Your turn, sonny," Michael Platt added as he shifted his aim and squeezed the trigger twice more. The bullets caught the young agent as he was trying to turn towards his attacker. Dove dropped his Model 459-through which he had just fired 29 rounds-and fell face-first on the asphalt. Agent Dove pushed against the ground, trying to get up. Michael Platt leaned over the trunk of the Buick, covering it with the blood pumping out of his upper arm, and fired two quick rounds into Dove's brain. Dove's head made a thudding noise as it hit the pavement a few inches from John Hanlon's ear.

That's the worst sound I've ever heard John Hanlon thought before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Nice of you guys to leave your car here for me," Michael Platt mumbled giddily as he stepped over the corpses of Grogan and Dove towards the open driver's door of the white Buick. He had suffered a tremendous amount of blood loss, and it was starting to make him light-headed.

Ed Mireles, lying behind McNeill's car with his ruined left arm, watched as Michael Platt prepared to get in the two dead agents' vehicle. Mireles had not yet used the 12-gauge 870 because Grogan and Dove had been in his line of fire. Now they lay dead. Mireles pointed the shotgun in Platt's general direction with his right hand and pulled the trigger, firing his first shot of the firefight. The gun was hard to hold well onehanded, and the shot string was low. It skipped off the asphalt and put four .33 caliber 00 buckshot pellets into Michael Plait's left foot. Mireles pulled himself to a sitting position. He was still well-concealed behind McNeill's cruiser.

Platt thought dreamily about how it felt good to sit down as he slid behind the wheel and closed the door. His foot was throbbing from the buckshot wounds.

Ed Mireles watched as Platt prepared to drive off in Ben Grogan's car. He put the butt of the 870 on the asphalt, gritted his teeth, held the receiver between his knees, and worked the action with his one good hand. Then he steadied the shotgun on McNeill's rear bumper and pulled the trigger. Instantly he saw the holes made by the nine 00 pellets appear in the sheetmetal in front of the Buick's left door.

That's not going to do it Mireles thought as he turned away, put the butt on the ground again, and pumped the action. As the wounded agent with the ruined left arm was cycling the weapon, Matix ran to the passenger door of the white Buick and joined Michael Platt in the front seat.

So the other one's still alive, too Mireles thought as he rested the Remington's forend on the corner of the bumper and took careful aim down the barrel. He lined up the front sight bead with where he thought Platt's left nipple should be, and then squeezed the trigger. That's more like it Mireles thought as he saw Platt thrown back in the seat from the impact of the buckshot striking him in the face. Now to get the other one.

"Shit, where is that fucker?" Michael Platt asked his partner as he spit a tooth and one of the buckshot pellets out of his mouth. Mireles had ideal cover behind McNeill's vehicle. Platt tried to turn the key in the ignition, but his right arm and hand would not work properly. One of Risner's 9mm Silvertips had gone clear through his right forearm. Platt reached over and tried to turn the key with his left hand. Matix was trying to help him when Mireles' next load of buckshot blasted through the wi ndshield. Platt and Matix both were sprayed with buckshot and broken glass.

Mireles methodically pumped the shotgun's action again, chambering the final 12-gauge shell, and took aim as he had before. One more through the windshield he decided. Get the guy in the passenger seat. Another nine-pellet load of 00 buckshot roared out of the Remington and blasted through the Buick's windshield, spraying Matix in the face. Mireles saw the man thrown backwards. Then the big agent dropped the empty shotgun and slumped to the side.

Michael Platt looked at Matix's ruined face. "Guy's dead meat," he mumbled to his friend, and threw open the door.

Agent Grogan and Agent Dove did not see what happened next, for they were both dead, each shot four times by Michael Platt with his Ruger Mini-14.

Agent Hanlon did not see what happened next, for he was lying unconscious with his pelvis destroyed and his right arm shattered by two shots out of Michael Platt's rifle.

Agent McNeill did not see what happened next, for he was lying on his back behind his own vehicle, paralyzed from the neck down and with his right hand a shattered mess from being shot twice by Michael Platt with his .223.

Agent Mireles did not see what happened next, for he was slumped facing away from the white Buick, with his left forearm destroyed by a bullet out of Michael Platt's rifle.