Tacoma fired a slug into the side of the driver's head, spraying blood and brains across the console, dropping the man to the deck in a contorted heap.

In the half second that followed, the bald man raised his withered arm. He stretched it out toward Tacoma, as if pointing.

It was then that Tacoma saw it.

In between where they stood was a table. On the table was the detonator. Its red button stuck up in the air, as if asking to be pressed.

His eyes locked with Tacoma's. Small eyes, clever eyes, black eyes filled with hate. They moved to the gun, carefully studying the hole at the end of the suppressor, still aimed at his head.

A long, pregnant silence took over the deck.

Both of them knew where the detonator was. Both knew that if the terrorist lunged, even if Tacoma shot him at that same moment, the momentum of his lunge would enable him to land on the detonator.

"I know what you're thinking," said Tacoma calmly, still breathing heavily. "You're thinking, should I go for it? Even if he shoots me, I'll probably land on it. Am I right?"

The bald man didn't respond. Instead, he crouched ever so slightly, coiling his legs, waiting for the precise moment to go.

"The thing is, if I shot you in the head, you'd be right," continued Tacoma, still holding the man's skull in the center of the gun. "It would go right through your brain and out the back. In fact, it would probably go pretty damn quick because of how small your brain is."

Tacoma grinned slightly, then swept the muzzle down, stopping when it was aimed dead center at the terrorist's chest.

"But the breastplate is a lot stronger," said Tacoma. "Runs down through your body. That's where you fucked up. You should've gone for it when I had it aimed at your head. You would've won. Now that I got your breastplate, it doesn't matter how hard you jump. Doesn't fuckin' matter anymore. As long as I can hit that breastplate, you're going backward. No way around it. It's physics, dude."

The terrorist jumped toward the table, surprising Tacoma. But the surprise lasted less than a second. Tacoma pumped the trigger. A telltale metallic thwack was the only sound as the suppressed gun sent a slug through the air. It struck him dead center in the chest, kicking him off his feet and back into the wall. He dropped.

Tacoma walked across the deck, gun aimed at all times on the man. He stepped above him, then stared down into his eyes.

"You see? I told ya."

He inched the suppressor up a few inches, then pumped another slug between the terrorist's eyes.

"Happy Independence Day, motherfucker."

EPILOGUE.

FREEMANS.

NEW YORK CITY.

THREE MONTHS LATER.

Freemans was crowded. The New York City restaurant, located at the end of a dark alley, was like an old hunting club on the inside, with dark wood and stuffed moose and deer heads hanging from the walls. There was barely enough light to see.

Dewey was a few minutes early and he stepped to the bar, ordering a bourbon and a beer, both of which he deposited down his throat so quickly that the bartender did a double take.

"Another round?"

Dewey nodded.

The bar was packed. Most of the people there were in their twenties. Of the two dozen or so people at the bar, Dewey guessed that three-quarters of them were female, and three-quarters of them were models.

Tacoma, he thought as he drained the second bourbon, then sat down and took a small sip of beer.

Suddenly, a magazine landed on the bar in front of Dewey in the same moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was Calibrisi.

"Hi, hotshot."

"Hi, Hector."

On the bar was the most recent issue of People magazine. The cover showed a male movie star Dewey didn't recognize. Below his face, the cover read: "The 50 Sexiest Men Alive."

"Oh, goody," said Dewey, enthusiastically. "I haven't seen this issue yet."

Calibrisi took the stool next to Dewey and ordered a glass of wine.

"Page sixty," said Calibrisi, nodding with a smile at the magazine.

"You finally made it," said Dewey, flipping through the magazine. "It's about time they started considering large protruding hairy guts sexy."

"Fuck you. Read it."

As he flipped through the magazine, he stopped at an earlier article. It featured a large photo of Katya Basaeyev. She was seated in a chair, legs crossed, smiling. Behind her, a window showed the skyline of Moscow on a sunny day.

"She's dancing again," said Calibrisi.

Dewey said nothing.

"Would you really have dropped her?" asked Calibrisi.

Dewey paused at the question, staring at Katya's beautiful face for a few extra moments before continuing to flip through the magazine. He didn't answer the question.

He found page sixty. He looked down at the photo. It was a glossy, full-page portrait of Tacoma. He was standing in a tight all-black Olympic-style swimsuit. His hair was slicked back and he was dripping wet. His arms and shoulders were tan and ripped in muscles. Each hand clutched a gun, and both were aimed at the camera. Kneeling to each side of him were females clad in skimpy string bikinis, one blond, the other brunette, both staring up adoringly at Tacoma.

"I'm going to puke," said Dewey.

Calibrisi laughed.

#4 Rob Tacoma, America's Hero The only thing hotter than the bullets flying out of exNavy SEAL Rob Tacoma's gun are the smoldering green eyes on his luscious Virginia-born face. With his Fourth of July heroics, 29-year-old Tacoma earned his place in America's pantheon of legends. With his movie star good looks and chiseled physique, Tacoma earns #4 on this year's list of the World's Sexiest Men Alive. Tacoma is single and plans to stay that way-unless some girl out there can figure out a way to deliver a kill shot to this studmuffin's flak jacketcovered heart.

Dewey shut the magazine and looked at the bartender.

"I need another bourbon."

Just then, a commotion came from the door. Katie was standing just inside the door, waiting for Tacoma. Tacoma was outside, surrounded by girls. He had a pen out and was signing autographs. Katie's eyes found Dewey. She rolled them and shook her head, then came over to the bar.

Katie was dressed in brown linen pants, high-heeled sandals, and a sleeveless see-through silk chemise. She'd let her hair grow out a bit. She resembled a young Ingrid Bergman.

Dewey looked at her as she approached, scanning her from head to toe, without taking his eyes off her.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"You."

Katie blushed slightly.

"You look nice," he said, reaching his arms out and wrapping them around her.

"Nice?" she whispered, holding Dewey tightly. "I like that. By the way, how are you, cutie? I missed the hell out of you."

"I missed you too," said Dewey. "I'm good."

Katie let go of Dewey and wrapped her arms around Calibrisi.

"Hi, big fella."

"Hi, Katie."

Dewey nodded to Tacoma, who was still at the door.

"Is it like this everywhere?" he asked.

"Yes," Katie said, exasperation in her voice. "It's crazy. He had two girls in his room this morning when I went by to meet him. I think they were cheerleaders."

"What makes you think that?" asked Dewey.

"They had cheerleader uniforms on."

Dewey laughed.

"You guys are not going to believe his ego," said Katie. "If you thought it was out of control before-"

"Let him enjoy it," said Calibrisi. "He did something important. He's young and single. Let him bask in his fifteen minutes of fame."

"Easy for you to say," said Katie, shaking her head. "As happy as I am that bomb didn't go off, there are times I find myself wishing it had."

Dewey, Calibrisi, and Katie all started laughing. They turned to see where Tacoma was. He signed the last autograph, then entered Freemans.

His hair was slicked back and combed neatly down the middle. He had on a light tan leather jacket. It was partially unzipped. He didn't have a shirt on. He wore madras shorts and cowboy boots.

"I think I agree with Katie," said Dewey, smiling and waving to Tacoma. "Hector, do you have Bokolov's number?"

Tacoma nodded to Dewey, raising his hand like a gun and firing his index finger at him.

"Did he just wink at me?" asked Dewey.

"He doesn't have a shirt on," said Calibrisi, incredulous.

Tacoma stepped to the bar. He wrapped his arms around Dewey, then Calibrisi. He nodded to the bartender, who brought him a bottle of beer.

"Okay, before you guys say anything, I have three points I wanna make," said Tacoma, looking at Dewey.

"Let me guess," said Dewey. "You met someone who delivered a kill shot to your flak jacketcovered heart."

Tacoma shook his head.

"First, I can't help it if some magazine names me to their sexiest man alive list. Now, if you ask me, I should've been number two, but that's water under the bridge. Second, I didn't know about those two chicks they stuck in the picture."

"Chicks?" asked Katie. "Can you possibly be more offensive?"

Tacoma took a big swig from the bottle.

"And what's third?" asked Dewey.

"What?" asked Tacoma.

"You said you had three points," said Dewey. "That was two."

"I think I said two. I had two points."

"Do us all a favor and put a lid on it for a few minutes, will ya, Mr. Sexy?" said Dewey.

Tacoma, slightly chastened, nodded, then grinned.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, man."

Just then, the hostess approached.

"Your table is ready."

They followed the hostess to a table in the dimly lit back room. They ordered several bottles of wine along with dinner. They caught up as they ate, eventually enjoying Tacoma's regaling them with his various exploits since the fateful day he killed the terrorist in New York harbor. At some point, they all realized Tacoma was not, in fact, bragging. He was as surprised, dumbfounded, and amused by it all as they were.

After dessert had been cleared and there followed a lull in conversation, Dewey glanced at Calibrisi. His mind flashed to the beginning of it all. Castine. Calibrisi had flown up not because of the coming attack, not even because he needed Dewey. He came that day to rescue him. Dewey wasn't good at saying thank-you, at least not with words, but he allowed a smile to come to his face. He picked up his wineglass.

"Here's to Hector," said Dewey.

"Here, here," Tacoma chimed in, raising his glass.

"To our fearless leader," added Katie.

Calibrisi smiled in silence and raised his glass, moving it to the other three.

"So what are you going to do about Gant and Roberts?" asked Dewey, after downing the remaining wine in his glass.