"All day."

"Let me call you back." Henry thought a moment, then reconsidered. "Nan, screw that. How many pages is this stuff?"

"Uh, six, I think, is what I've got right now. There's more coming, but it won't get here 'til tomorrow. Some time before 10:30."

"Okay, anything oversize, stick on your copier and reduce it to letter size. Then FAX everything you've got so far to my cellular number. I'll hook it into my laptop as soon as I hang up here. If any seismic charts or stuff like that are too hard to read, I can have you send me the originals overnight mail if I have to. If your FAX doesn't go through right away, keep sending. I'll be using the phone while you're using your copier, and you may finish before I do."

"Good deal," the broker said with obvious relief in his voice. Henry disconnected and began to dial his home number, to confirm that he really had failed to turn on his phone recorder, before making his other calls.

"Change of plans, Allen," Henry said with a very embarrassed look on his face as he came in for lunch. "And I feel like a real dick-brain."

"Well, that's understandable," Kane replied with a smile. Allen motioned to Henry to help himself to one of the thick hamburgers Allen had cooked. "What's the problem?"

"Two things have come up," Henry said as he filled a glass with water from the tap and ignored the dig. "I've been doing analysis on a seismic process being used by an oil services company, and I just found out that I need to do some more. I could blow it off, but I've already done most of the work, and I think I'm going to end up buying a big chunk of stock for myself. So I want to finish up. Probably take me another day."

"I can wait an extra day," Allen said immediately. "Hey, you like spicy food-put a little slice of one of these on that," Kane said as he handed Henry a red pepper about the size of a .458 bullet. "But just a little bitty slice. I mean like half the size of a grain of rice. That's a Habanero. Friend of mine has a garden where he grows nothing but peppers. He says that's the hottest one in the world." Henry gave his friend a dubious look, pulled his knife from his pocket, and flicked open the double-edged blade with one hand.

"An Applegate?" Allen Kane asked, eyeing the metal's satin finish and the two names laser-engraved on it.

"Right. Leave it to Colonel Rex to design a pocket knife that'll get you arrested in forty-three states," he joked. Henry was referring to the fact that the knife he was holding was designed to be opened with one hand, and its blade was double-edged --a feature almost unheard-of in a folder. On the market since 1996, Henry's knife was the last blade designed by Col. Rex Applegate, the fullback-sized ex-OSS officer who had been assigned to train Americans in close quarter battle in WWII. Applegate had taken his wartime job to heart, and had seen no reason to slack off on his efforts merely because the Second World War ended. Applegate continued to train people until his death in August of 1998. Colonel Rex had been one of Henry and Allen's favorite people.

"Last time I saw him was in early '98, about six months before he died. He was signing a copy of Kill or Get Killed for a friend of mine. Had some big gold coin on a choker, looked like it weighed a couple ounces."

"You know why he wore that, don't you?" Henry asked as he sliced a small piece off the pepper and put it on the edge of his hamburger. "It was to bait the street punks into trying to mug him, to keep in practice. Some moron outside the SHOT show back in '96 thought a guy in his eighties with a bad limp would be easy pickings," Henry continued as he prepared to bite into his sandwich. "He ended up on the ground, screaming like a woman, with the sorest set of-Jesus Christ!" Henry exclaimed around a mouthful of food.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Allen Kane said, and then became utterly overcome with laughter at Henry's facial expressions. "Too hot for you?" he finally asked.

"No," Henry said, swallowing, "but you weren't kidding about how much to use. I guess that's why you never see these things in the supermarket-not too much profit margin when one of them is enough for a thousand people." Henry judiciously sliced four even tinier pieces off the Habanero and arranged them on the rest of his hamburger. He took a long drink of water and eyed his sandwich cautiously before taking another, smaller bite.

"What 1 was saying earlier," he continued, getting back to his change of plans, "remember I was telling you about that refueling company I capitalized?"

"Wasn't that the deal where your fuel trucks would go fill up semis at night that were operated by union drivers, and charge the company double for the fuel? Something about when it was after hours and the union's depot was closed, the unions wouldn't let their drivers fill their own trucks at a self-service?"

"Yeah, that's the one, except the drivers weren't completely prohibited from self-service, but it was such a horrendous extra charge that our setup was cheaper. Anyway, we locked one truck line into a five-year contract less than three years ago, and now the drivers' union has gotten hungry and changed their policy, and the truck line wants out of their contract with my guy. They just read the fine print on the contract, and went ballistic. Hack Carter-that's the president of the refueling company-just had his tires slashed and started getting death threats."

"Jesus! That's just what you need."

"Oh, it's not quite that bad," Henry said as he gingerly took another bite from his hamburger. "I don't have any active role in managing the company, and I think I can handle it with a phone call to a fellow I know, if I can ever get through to him. He seems to be away from his office, too." Henry then drained his water glass and went to the sink to refill it.

"So you telling me you're out for Idaho?"

"Hell, no, not that. What it looks like, though, is that this crap might take more than a day or two. I wasn't planning to go for a full month anyway. What say we flip it around-I'll come out ten days late, instead of leaving ten days early."

"What about your guns? And how are you going to get from a major airport to wherever I happen to be ten days from now?"

"I thought about that. Since you're bringing the belt-feds and the 20mm, all I've got is a half-dozen wheelguns, three bolt action rifles, and a BAR. They'll fit in my Cub, no problem. I'll check my charts, but there's apt to be a local airport or a duster strip within ten miles of anywhere you're likely to be camped." Henry paused, and he could see Allen was considering the idea.

"Would you be able to do your stuff from here for a few days before going back to Missouri?" Allen asked. "I guess I could," Henry said with a puzzled expression. "Why?"

"While you were out in the shop working, Dale Price called. You've met him-he's the hog farmer lives about five miles west of here, likes big-caliber single shots."

"The guy with the .577 built on a Fix action, wanted to see my 4-bore?"

"Yeah, that's the guy. Anyway, he was supposed to come by tonight and pick up Eugene, take care of him 'til I got back," Kane said, scratching the dog behind his ears. "He just called from Pennsylvania, said could I leave him tied up with plenty of food or water and he'd be by in a couple days. No way I'm going to do that, but I don't have anyone else I can leave him with."

"I'll stay here a couple days, work on the Petromag stuff, and when I have to go, if Dale hasn't shown up yet, I'll take Eugene back to Missouri with me." Allen Kane laughed.

"On a motorcycle?"

"Of course. I'll bolt a wooden box with the top open to the luggage rack. He'll love it."

"You know, this may actually work out okay," Allen said, thinking. "What about your ammo? Where is it?"

"All my ammo is inside the door to the garage, ready to throw on your truck, if you still don't mind stopping by the house and picking it up. I can give you my alarm codes."

"Sure. No problem."

"Then let's plan on meeting in Mackey ten days from today," Henry suggested. "That's where Lindbergh Truck Lines is, remember? Where we used to buy our dynamite? Ten days should be plenty of time for me to clear up this newest headache. Let's just plan on meeting at Lindbergh's June fourteenth, ten days from today. When you're near a phone a day or two before, give them a call. If some disaster hits and I can't make it, I'll phone them and leave a message. Give them a call on the twelfth. If I haven't called in to cancel, I'll be there. That sound good?"

"Yeah...that'll work," Allen replied. "And after lunch, you can help me load the deuce-and-a-half." "Somehow I had a feeling you were going to get around to that."

June 7 "Gentlemen," the supervisor said. "Ladies," he added, nodding to acknowledge the two women agents present in the briefing room, "I can't stress strongly enough the importance of the mission you are about to carry out. A successful, three-pronged raid will break the back of the largest obstacle to our authority and ability to do our jobs: independent Class Three manufacturers." Wilson Blair wasn't telling his people anything he hadn't said before, but he was a strong believer in the benefits of a final pep talk before an important raid.

"Between them, Grant Millet and Allen Kane account for almost one-third of the annual dealer-to-dealer transfers of NFA weapons in this country. Nailing both these guys at the same time will be the death knell for all the people in this country who think that just because they get a bunch of federal licenses and pay a bunch of taxes, they have the right to manufacture and own guns that should properly be restricted to the government.

"Together, Kane and Millet have over two thousand machine guns and destructive devices registered to them. I guarantee that the haul you take from those two places is going to be plastered on the front pages of every newspaper in this country," he said. And this time, there'll be no goddamn disasters like we got back in '93 he added silently.

"Henry Bowman is not a manufacturer like Kane and Millet, and compared to those two, his Class Three business is tiny. He is nonetheless the third-largest NFA weapons dealer in Missouri, and you'll still get a great photo opportunity with what you'll find at his place. According to the current NFA registry, Bowman has over one hundred Title Two weapons registered to him.

"Henry Bowman's great importance to this raid is that he is a lifelong friend of Allen Kane's, and is also close to Grant Millet. As such, we can safely assume that he knows as much or more about Kane and Millet than anyone else in the country. He is also a wealthy man who has considerable assets other than his firearms inventory.

"Kane and Millet have only their guns to lose," Blair said airily. He was ignoring any concepts of personal freedom or dignity, but none of the agents in the room noticed. "Because of that," he went on, "we have less to trade with the two of them.

"Bowman, however, has several million dollars in securities and real estate in addition to his guns. Further, he has never held a manufacturer's license. He has a lot smaller stake in the gun end of things and a lot more to lose overall than his two friends. It is Bowman that we believe we can get to roll over and hand us Kane and Millet. And hitting all three of them at the same time is the way to do it."

"Bowman is currently en route spending three weeks in the Idaho Rockies with Kane. Our surveillance has confirmed that Kane's 2 1/2-ton military truck left Indiana two days ago, and was seen in Wyoming this morning. Their destination is somewhere in the Pahsimeroi Valley in central Idaho. They should soon be there, if they are not already. That is some eighteen hundred miles away from Kane's house, and fifteen hundred miles from Bowman's.

"They are camping out of their vehicle, and their exact location is unknown, not only to us but to anyone. That gives us a great advantage, for it means that no message can reach them for a minimum of several days and perhaps as long as several weeks.

"Similarly, Millet is currently in Ecuador. He is halfway through a three-week trip to Central and South America, where he is looking for surplus tripods, optics, and gun parts for future importation. As with Bowman and Kane, Millet's exact schedule is unknown to anyone, and the fact that he on a different continent makes it a certainty that by the time he learns of our actions, we will have an airtight case against him.

"Bowman is single, and at the moment he lives alone. Kane has been separated from his wife for almost a year; she lives with another man in Indianapolis, and their two children are grown and live out of state. Millet's wife and their three children are at the present time in Orlando, Florida, and will soon be visiting Disney World, where Millet will meet them on his way home to Ohio." The supervisor smiled broadly.

"None of the three targets' houses are occupied at this time. We have an opportunity here, people," the supervisor said emphatically, "like we have never had before." This one's going to finally make up for all the screw-ups that have gone before he added to himself.

"We are going to nail these three bastards, and we are going to have them up on a list of charges three feet long before they even know they've been raided."

Henry Bowman was sitting in an old armchair next to the loading bench. He had turned out the lights and was sitting in the dark thinking about the most recent FAX concerning Petromag when his cellular phone rang. He looked at his watch. 11:17p.m. I hope it's Sam. Sam Ash ton was a private investigator and skip tracer who brought back bail jumpers for bail bondsmen. With the possible exception of Earl TaylorEdgarton, Sam was the first person Henry would choose to have on his side in a fight where he was greatly outnumbered.

"Hello."

"Yeah, man, what do you need?"

"Sam!" Henry exclaimed. "Thanks for calling me back. Listen, I'm out of town, and I've got a problem. St. Louis company I've got some money in, named On-Site Refueling, out near the airport, off of Dunn Road. They've got a long-standing contract with a truck line and now the union drivers are pissed and want OnSite to tear it up. On-Site's president's name is Hack Carter, and he's had his tires slashed and some death threats on the phone. That was when I talked to him a couple days ago-maybe more shit's happened by now. Here's his home number," Henry continued, and recited an exchange in Bridgeton.

As he finished repeating the number, Henry heard Eugene barking loudly outside. Hope that's Dale Price he thought.

"Sam, there's someone just pulled up, so I'll have to call you back. But can you talk to Hack for me and maybe help him out? He's been going kind of nuts." Sam Ashton laughed in reply.

"The way you sounded on the recorder, I thought this was going to be something difficult. I've got to leave town in two days, but those union bosses are all so dirty, first-time investigator could fill up a legal pad by then. Give me a day, and your guy won't have any more trouble. Probably won't run you over five hundred."

Eugene was barking more frantically now, and Henry heard what sounded like several voices at the far edge of the yard.

"Sounds great. I'm sure Hack'll jump at that deal." What the hell's going on out there? Henry wondered as he stood up. "Sam, let me call you back. Somebody just drove up, and I've got to see who it is." "Don't bother-I won't be here. I got all the info I need. This time tomorrow, the problem will be solved. Bye." Sam Ashton hung up.

Henry Bowman pushed the END button on his cellular phone and reached out in the darkness for the doorway to Allen Kane's lead casting room. His hand found the edge of the door frame and he slid his fingers along the loading workshop wall to where he knew the light switch lay. Henry's fingertips had just touched the switch plate when he heard a most distinctive noise, and Eugene suddenly fell silent.

Henry Bowman felt the hair on his back stand on end, and his hand instinctively went to the 5" N-frame in the sharkskin Ken Null holster at his right kidney. There's only two things I know of that make that sound he thought to himself as he pulled his hand away from the light switch. And one of them requires a constant source of compressed air. Somehow I doubt that whoever's out there just happens to have an air tank and a pneumatic nail gun. And I don't think Eugene just happened to get tired of barking. Henry knew that Kane's pet was almost certainly dead. He forced his mind to focus on preserving his own life instead of mourning the dog.

Need to be able to see first Henry said to himself, thinking of the two latest-design night scopes that Allen had shipped back three days earlier. Goggles 'd be best. He walked silently in the darkness towards the other end of the room. There was enough moonlight coming in through the curtains for Henry to see the larger things in the crowded shop, but he shuffled his feet and extended his arms to avoid crashing into anything smaller and causing a racket.

The eight night vision devices that Allen and Henry had used as a comparison with the ones sent by the SEAL team were on the shelf next to a boxed set of collets for Allen's milling machine. Henry felt around until his hands recognized the familiar shape of the AN-TVS-5 dual-tube night vision goggles, then he lifted them off the shelf and slipped them on his head. The newer-generation TVS-7 single-tube version was newer and supposedly better, but Henry wanted the -5 for two reasons: First, Henry owned a pair of TVS-5s, and so was familiar with the layout of their controls. Second, Allen had been the last one to use the

-7 in their comparison, while Henry had been the last person to wear the -5. Henry knew the dual-tube unit was already adjusted for his head and eyes.

Henry Bowman pulled off the lens caps and switched on the power. He was rewarded with a blurred green video image of Allen Kane's shop. Focus is set at infinity he realized with satisfaction. Now for some ears. He took one of the amplified headsets off a hook on the wall, put them on his head over the NV goggle harness, switched them on, and turned up the gain. Only then did Henry draw his .44 Smith and make his way to the large sliding doors that separated him from Allen Kane's yard.

"Should one or two of us go check the storage buildings?" Ralph Compton asked as he nudged the carcass of Allen Kane's dog with the toe of his boot. He was mentally congratulating himself on the chest shot he had made from ten feet. The 147-grain 9mm slug from Compton's suppressed H&K MP5 had killed the dog instantly.

"No, won't take us but a minute to get in here. After we've had a look around the main house, then we can all spread out and check the rest of the property."

Allen Kane's two-acre plot contained his house, the barn he had turned into a shop, two sheds he used for storing tripods and heavy mounts, an old blacksmith's shop where he kept his lead ingots and .50 caliber 'burnouts', and two modern-era steel buildings; one where he stored all his belts and magazines, and the other full of smokeless powder for reloading. His guns were kept in safes inside an underground vault, accessible only from the house.

Henry Bowman stood a few feet back from the gap between the sliding doors and looked out into the night towards the house. What he saw filled him with dismay. A white van was parked on the gravel to the side of Kane's house. And shit! There's...six of them! he said to himself, after counting heads. At least six he corrected when he realized there could be more men out of sight. No night vision gear, and they drove right up by the back door of the house. They know where the guns are and they think the place is deserted. Henry saw Eugene lying dead by the back porch, and saw the unmistakable shape of a suppressed MP5. Six guys with MP5s he thought in utter horror. Suddenly the Smith & Wesson in his right hand felt about as potent as a muzzle loader.

Got to find something better Henry thought frantically as he looked around the shop. The green image was blurred at the close distance, and Henry reached up and focused the image tubes for an eight-foot distance and turned on the tiny IR bulb which lit up the video screen like a floodlight.

Allen Kane kept almost all of his guns in his vault, except when he was working on them or shooting them. There were usually one or two lying around the shop, but Allen had left for Idaho, and the only gun Henry could remember being out was a .22 pistol Henry had been shooting the day before. It was a Hi-Standard Olympic in .22 Short, loaded with CB caps. CB caps were .22s loaded with a light 29-grain bullet and a tiny amount of powder. Their velocity was well under the speed of sound, and close up, they would penetrate only about 3/4" into a pine two-by-four. They also made very little noise. Allen kept the gun and the pipsqueak loads around to shoot mice.

Better than nothing Henry thought as he hurried to the cleaning table where he had left the Hi-Standard. The bolt was locked back on an empty magazine, but there were four loaded ones next to it that Henry had not yet gotten around to shooting. He swapped the empty magazine in the gun for a full one, put the remaining three loaded magazines in his left pocket, and continued to look around the shop. Didn't Allen have a Garand up here? he thought, before remembering his friend had taken it with him in the truck. Then Henry spotted the one other gun in the room, a rifle standing in the corner behind the drill press. Mag's missing Henry observed, and almost left it where it was. Then he realized it would be foolish to do so. At least I've got ammo for it he thought sardonically as he grabbed the rifle and returned to his vantage point by the sliding door. The electronics in his muffs magnified the sounds of his footsteps and made him wince. "Door looks pretty solid, sir," Peter Hagedorn said, shining his flashlight around its perimeter.

"G.G., grab the shotgun out of the van," Wilson Blair commanded, and one of the agents immediately hurried towards the white Ford.

G.G. Jackson was one of many women employed by agencies of the federal government. She had been born in Chicago's South Side in 1963. Her mother, Shavonna Jackson, had been fifteen at the time. Like many 15-year-old single mothers, Shavonna Jackson had not thought much about the realities of motherhood, including the immediate problem of what to name her offspring.

Concurrently, overworked interns on rotation in ghetto hospitals did what they could to entertain themselves amid 20-hour days in depressing surroundings. In 1963, as in all other years, one of the standard gambits among interns assigned to inner-city delivery rooms was to see who could cause the most outrageous name to be printed on the birth certificate of children born to ghetto teenagers.

The second week of February, 1963 saw some serious competition among interns in south Chicago. In a five-day period, there were Chicago-area births registered for Madison Avenue Washington, Epluribus Wilson, Nosmo King (inspired by a waiting room sign), Simian Cook, and Anus Brown. The award that week, however, went to a young doctor from Grosse Pointe, Michigan, who hated working in the Chicago facility. He had suggested to Miss Jackson that she give her infant daughter a distinctive, happy-sounding name, and offered one he thought appropriate. He pronounced the first name with the accent on the second syllable, and Shavonna thought it sounded nice. Like 'Gloria', only fancier. People who read the name would pronounce it differently, but Shavonna could not read, so the impact of the intern's joke was not felt for some time.

When Shavonna learned the truth two years later, she started addressing her daughter by her first and middle initials, and the Jackson girl grew up pretending she was named for a pretty lady in a movie. To this day, G.G. Jackson was unaware of what was actually typed on her birth certificate.

Henry Bowman had been making his way to the sliding barn doors and had not heard Wilson Blair call Agent Jackson by her first name. That pudgy black guy runs like a girl Henry thought as he watched the intruder jog back to the van. The reflection of the flashlight on the back door of Allen Kane's house made it look like green daylight in Henry's night vision goggles. Although the goggles offered no magnification, Henry could make out a number of details at the 60-yard distance. He reached in his left pocket, withdrew one of the 10-shot magazines for the Hi-Standard .22 pistol, and began to unload it so that he would have ammo for the rifle. Henry analyzed the weapons he faced as he put the ten cartridges in his mouth.

White guy with the MP5. Tall black guy with an AR-15 or M16. Probably a -16, if they've got a suppressed H&K. White guy with an attache case, not wearing a hat like the others, seems to be giving the orders, probably h as a pistol under his coat. White guy with a flashlight and a pistol in a belt holster, small guy- girl, maybe ? -standing off to the left, also with a belt holster, fat black guy coming back from the van with a thin padded case, not wide enough to hold a scoped rifle, no holster visible on this side, maybe he's a lefty.

A multi-gender and multi-racial assault force armed with automatic weapons and invading Allen Kane's home in the middle of the night meant only one thing to Henry Bowman. Some kind of terrorist organization looking to outfit their troops Henry decided as he stared at the six intruders. Possibly a drug ring. Outlaw motorcycle gang? he thought briefly. No, not with two black guys. And the hair's too short. What's that guy got in the briefcase? Burglary tools?

Henry thought a moment about the timing of the assault. Probably found out at a gun show when Allen 'd be gone. Likely from out of state. Probably California. Allen Kane set up at gun shows from California to Florida to advertise his business. California state law prohibited private ownership of machine guns, and banned the sale of most semiautos, but Kane did a large business with the movie studios and the rental companies that served them.

Henry scanned the area to the sides as far as his vantage point would permit, but saw no other people. Allen's storage vault is better than the local bank's, but you can get into anything if you have enough time. Van's probably full of equipment. They've got all the time in the world, and they'll kill me i f I try to make a run for it. He considered using his cellular to call the local sheriff. Out here in the middle of a bunch of farmland, probably only have one cruiser to send, with a couple deputies they'll have to roust out of bed. God knows how long that would take, and then these guys would cut them to ribbons before they got out of the car.