Agent Manauzzi did not see what happened next, for he was still looking for his lost revolver while forcing himself to ignore the glass and bullet fragments that had burrowed into his flesh when Michael Platt had fired his rifle through the window at him.

Agent Arrantia did not see what happened next, for he was hunkered down in the front seat of his car across the street, trying to get more cartridges out of the box in the glove compartment to reload his revolver, and gritting his teeth against the pain of a wound inflicted by Edward Matix's shotgun.

Agent Risner did not see what happened next, for he was across the street, running behind his and Arrantia's car and trying to find a spot where he could shoot at Platt and Matix without hitting Agent Mireles in the process.

A private citizen, watching from his apartment window, saw what happened next.

Michael Platt twisted a six-inch S&W .357 magnum out of his shoulder holster with his left hand. Michael Platt, who had two 9mm slugs in his chest, one 9mm slug through his right arm, several 9mm and .38 grazes, four .33 caliber lead buckshot in his left foot and six more in his face, got out of the white Buick that had been issued to the late agents Grogan and Dove and started walking towards Ed Mireles.

The private citizen would use the word 'stealthily' to describe the manner in which Michael Platt walked towards Ed Mireles. Intellectually, the citizen knew that Plait's gait was a result of his wounds, but he would never shake the image of Platt sneaking up on the unsuspecting agent.

Michael Platt stopped two paces from where Mireles was slumped. Platt felt his vision clouding as he stared at the big man's broad back. He held the L-frame Smith & Wesson awkwardly out in front of him with his left hand and pulled the trigger three times. Then Platt turned and limped back to the Buick.

All three shots missed.

Ed Mireles did not hear the three shots fired five feet from him, or feel the concussion of the muzzle blasts. He was in a private world of planning and determination. When Ed Mireles got to his feet and drew his revolver, he had no idea that Platt had gotten out of the car, walked over to him, fired three shots, and returned to the driver's seat. He only knew that Platt and Matix were still alive.

Mireles drew his .357 revolver, which he had not yet fired, and held it out in front of him as he walked towards the driver's door of the white Buick. His vision was getting black around the edges, and Mireles knew that 'tunnel vision' was a sure sign that loss of consciousness was imminent.

Front sight Mireles thought as he focused on the front blade, put it over the center of Platt's face, and squeezed the trigger. Pinwheel he thought as he saw Platt's head jerk. One more. Mireles repeated the process a second time as he continued to walk towards the car.

When he was close enough to the car to see Matix with his ruined face in the passenger seat, Mireles switched targets and fired three more times, hitting Matix in the head with each 158-grain lead hollowpoint. Last one's for you Mireles thought as he stopped a few inches from the door of the Buick and fired his sixth round into Platt's face at a distance of one foot.

The first round out of Mireles' revolver had killed Michael Platt; the other three had been superfluous. Platt had seen the big man coming towards him with the gun extended, but he had been momentarily stunned at the sight, for he had been sure he had just killed him moments before.

Michael Platt had fired a fair amount of ammo in his lifetime, but there was one shooting exercise he had never once practiced: He had never done any point shooting with his weak hand.

April 19,1986 "So what does this Hughes amendment you're talking about mean, exactly?" Stokely Meier asked when he saw Henry Bowman and his uncle Max Collins enter the store. Henry Bowman sighed.

"No one's really sure. Word I get is that it was added in the last thirty seconds of discussion by a voice vote, and there's strong evidence that parliamentary rules weren't followed, so some people think maybe it'll be overturned. I think whatever it is, it won't be tossed out. It involves people who own machine guns, and we're an embarrassment to both sides." He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing.

"The wording-if the version I heard was accurate-is redundant. It doesn't make anything illegal that isn't already."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is, we know what Hughes wanted, even if he wasn't smart enough or know enough about guns and gun laws to have it written out properly before jumping up and down and waving his hands in the last minute of discussion.

"What the amendment says is that after the effective date there shall be no machine gun transfers quote 'except under the authority of an agency of the United States Government' unquote. Well, every machine gun transfer is already done on a federal form signed and approved by the Director of the Treasury, and has been ever since June of 1934."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is, we know that what Hughes meant is no transfers of guns made after the effective date except to an agency of the U.S. Government. He wanted to freeze the supply. BATF is going to start rejecting all transfer forms for machine guns made after the effective date, except to police and government agencies. And there's nothing we can do about it."

"Is freezing the supply really so bad?" asked a man Henry did not know. "I mean- aren't there enough machine guns in the system for you to get what you want?" Tom Fleming expelled his breath in a loud bark of derision at the man's comment, then quoted Winston Churchill.

"Those who appease a tiger do so in the hope that the tiger will eat them last." Henry Bowman nodded, then decided to answer the man's question.

"The politicians have just accomplished something they have never been able to do before. They have taken a whole class of small arms and made it so that no newly manufactured ones can be owned by private citizens ever again. Hughes or anyone else can now easily claim there are more than enough shotguns and rifles around to justify the same kind of law on them. Remington has produced about three million 870 shotguns alone. That's thirty times as many of just one model of shotgun as all the machine guns put together. Are you starting to realize that maybe the things you like are at risk, too, and not just mine?" The man looked embarrassed, but said nothing.

"There have been approximately one hundred thousand Class Three firearms placed on the civilian registry since June of 1934. In that fifty-year time period, not a single machine gun transferred on a federal form has ever been used by its owner in a crime of violence. Not one. But that record wasn't good enough for William Hughes. Paying two hundred dollars to the Treasury each time they change hands wasn't good enough for William Hughes. Making the applicants get fingerprinted, photographed, and investigated by the FBI wasn't good enough for William Hughes. Having no machine guns at all in the hands of honest residents of Hughes' home state, because New Jersey has a state prohibition on them, wasn't good enough for William Hughes." Henry stared at the man who had asked him the question.

"No government agency ever invented a decent machine gun. Every truly outstanding small arms design I know of was the work of an individual gun designer, usually working without a nickel of government money until after they bought his design, except maybe in combloc countries. John Browning in his workshop in Utah gave us the 1895 Colt, the 1917 watercooled, the BAR, the 1919A4, the AN-M2, the watercooled .50, the M2 heavy-barreled .50, and the 37mm automatic cannon. That was just one guy. Throw in all of Hiram Maxim's guns next. Then the Vickers, the Thompson, the Kalashnikov-Russians would've been screwed without him-all Gene Stoner's guns like the AR-10 and AR-15, Degtyarev's designs, Vaclav Halek's ZB 26 and the BREN copy of it, Hugo Schmeisser's guns and all the copies of them, the STEN, the Patchett, Uziel Gal's 9mm UZI and .308 Galil, the Steyr AUG-hell, every one of them." Henry shook his head in frustration.

"The United States cancelled most of its future full-auto small arms development in 1934 with the National Firearms Act, by making inventors pay $200 a year. And it was development that our country was getting for free. When $200 finally got to where it wasn't that big a deal, some of that development picked up again, like Gene Stoner in the '50s. Now this Hughes guy has cancelled it altogether. He ought to be charged with treason." Henry was livid. "Barring that," Henry Bowman said softly, "I'd like to handcuff him to one of the steel I-beam supports in my basement, and wire him for sound."

Stokely Meier's head jerked up and he stared, wide-eyed. He had never before seen his friend become truly angry at anyone. He was seeing it now, and he well understood it.

"One of these days," Pete Malloy said, "this is really going to blow up in their faces." Pete was a retired cop that hung around the gun store on Saturdays.

"And speaking of that," Tom Fleming said, "I got a bunch of dope from my buddy Evan last night about the FBI shootout in Miami."

Everyone in the shop turned to look at the lawyer. Tom Fleming currently ran police firearms training courses with Rufus Ingram and gave lectures on legal aspects to police departments. He had also headed a military police agency in Illinois when he was in the army. On matters involving police procedures and police weapons training, Tom and Rufus were the two most knowledgeable people Henry knew. Rufus was ex-SAS.

"What's the story?" Henry asked.

"FBI got clobbered, is the short version," Fleming said. "And they're scrambling like hell to keep from looking like bumbling idiots.

"First of all, they set up this ten-car surveillance looking for two bank robbers that they know always carry at least one AR-15 and several handguns, and who they know have already killed several people. Fourteen FBI agents get in ten air-conditioned cars to go cruising around looking for well-armed, known killers, and not one of them has a rifle-rated vest. Not one. They all have pistol-rated vests, but get this, only one guy bothers to put his on. The rest have 'em lying on the seats.

"One of the Fibbies spots the bad guys fifteen minutes after they start looking for them, and what does he do? Tailgates them in the middle of a residential area, and then calls in a bunch of the other cars. Then two of the cars ram the suspect car."

"What?" Henry said.

"That's just what I said-What? That's exactly what Evan said. He works in Detroit, and they stop eight or ten cars a night. Cruiser wouldn't last a whole day using those tactics. Anyway, three FBI cars ram these guys off the road. But before they do, two of the agents thoughtfully take their guns out of their holsters and put them on the car seats. So the guns fly off the seats and get lost as soon as the agents start the ram-athon. One of those two isn't even carrying a backup gun, so he's running around the whole time looking for his revolver while bullets are whizzing through the air."

"Couple of agents got killed, I heard on the news, along with the bank robbers. Also, didn't they fire some crazy number of shots?" Stokely asked.

"Over a hundred forty," Tom Fleming replied. "One of the guys who got killed had a 459 Smith and fired it dry twice. Only got one hit that they know of, out of twenty-nine shots, and died with the slide locked back."

"Jesus, how far away was everybody? A hundred yards?" Henry asked. Most semi-auto handguns weren't good for better than 18" groups at that distance under ideal conditions. Henry was visualizing the FBI agents pitted at long distance against someone with a rifle.

"Six of the eight agents, including both of the ones that were killed, were between six and twenty feet from the two suspects. The other two Fibbies were about twenty-five yards away, shooting from across the street."

"One hit out of twenty-nine from less than twenty feet?" Henry shook his head. "Sounds like spray and pray, big-time," he said finally. "What kind of guns were the feds using?"

"Three 459s. Three .357 Smiths. Two .38 Smith Model 10s. Two Chief's Specials as backup guns. One 870 Remington."

"Out of eight agents, seven of them don't wear body armor and six of them only had one handgun?" Henry asked. "Going after known killers who had centerfire rifles?" He was incredulous. "Why only one shotgun? Why no rifles or subguns?"

"Funny you should ask that. There was a second shotgun there. The supervisor had it. It was in the back of his car, where he couldn't get to it without exposing himself to being shot. When he tried to, one of the bad guys put a .223 round in his neck that bounced off his spine and left him paralyzed for a few hours." Tom Fleming laughed at what he was about to say next.

"Subguns, you asked? As a matter of fact, the FBI did have two H&K MP5s in one of the cars. Problem was, the two agents that had them were busy double-teaming some broad at the restaurant where she worked. They didn't get their pants up in time to get to the gunfight."

Henry was incredulous. "Wait a minute," he demanded. "I thought you said the feds found the suspects fifteen minutes after they started their surveillance!" Henry's uncle spoke up.

"I guess those two agents got started early on breakfast." At seventy-three, Max Collins was still powerfully built and in excellent shape, but his sex drive had declined as he had aged. It had gotten to where every other day was plenty.

Fleming saw Henry Bowman's expression. "I keep telling you, Henry. It's the biggest problem Rufus and I have doing our training courses. Cops get used to people doing whatever they tell them to. They get used to routine. That's why they are absolutely undone when they come up against someone that doesn't do what they're supposed to."

"He's right, Henry," Pete Malloy said. "And I was a cop for twenty-seven years. Lot of faith in the badge, and all the back-up. Every cop has to cool down drunk assholes that want to take a swing at him. That's what the mail-order pacifier's for. Very few coppers ever come across some hard-on that's ready to kill him even if he dies in the process. I know I never did. Every cop I ever knew came across someone like that is dead now."

Malloy thought a moment. "You had better gunfight training on that trip to Rhodesia than any police officer in this country." Before Henry could answer, Tom Fleming spoke again.

"Pete, you hear about those two Secret Service agents on the stakeout in, uh, San Diego, I think it was?" "The ones staking out the place where some counterfeiters were printing up food stamps? Everybody knows that story."

"That the one where they were screwing and got mugged?" Stokely asked.

"What are you talking about?" Henry demanded.

"Couple a Secret Service agents, man and a woman, got assigned to watch this place where some guys were holed up," Pete Malloy explained. "Guys were suspected of printing up food stamp coupons, startin' their own welfare program. Next day, the two agents don't call in. Secret Service can't find 'em. Meanwhile, local coppers have come on a car with two dead bodies in it, mugging victims. No I.D. on the bodies, so they get hauled off to the morgue, an' the car gets towed away. VIN number says the car's registered to the government. Coroner's report comes in, couple was fucking in the car, some dirtbag killed 'em, took their money an' wallets. Meanwhile, Secret Service is still tryin' to find their two stakeout agents. Then word finally filters back to the Secret Service that one a their cars is in the impound lot, an' they finally find the missing stakeout team down at the morgue with toe tags."

"They were screwing in the car and the counterfeiters snuck up on them and killed them?" Henry asked.

"Hell, no!" Pete roared. "Service tried six ways to Sunday to pin it on the food stamp guys, but they didn't have anything to do with it. They'd never been involved in a violent crime in their lives, just printin' paper. No, the two agents were screwin' in their car, an' just like the report said, some stranger walked along, iced 'em for what they had in their wallets, then took their I.D. an' all the guns in the car. Feds were lots more upset 'bout losin' two sets a creds than they were about losin' two agents. The Service never did find out who did it. Coulda been anyone."

Henry was still thinking hard about the ex-cop's last two statements when Max returned to the subject of the Miami incident.

"On this Florida thing, it's a fucking miracle no one around got hit by a stray bullet. A hundred forty rounds fired in less than five minutes in the middle of a residential area in Miami and no one around gets hit. That's an act of God."

"And speaking of that," Pete Malloy asked, 'Tom, can you imagine what the FBI would have said if it had been the local Miami coppers that had gone after known, heavily armed killers, and left their vests and shotguns in the back seats of their cars, then rammed the suspects' vehicle to precipitate a hundred-fortyround gun battle in the middle of a residential neighborhood?" Fleming considered the concept, then tucked his chin into his chest and lowered his voice when he replied.

"A spokesman for the FBI said, 'These actions show that local municipal police departments do not have the knowledge, training, or expertise to handle highly motivated, heavily armed career criminals with a history of deadly violence. That is why the apprehension of such dangerous men should always be left to the trained professionals of the FBI whenever possible.'"

Fleming switched back to his normal voice and added, "You could actually argue that the FBI guys got off easy. The suspect who did almost all the damage used a Ruger Mini-14. He killed the two cops, bounced a round off the supervisor's spine and paralyzed him for a few hours, wounded one agent with fragments when he shot him through his car window, hit two guys in their gun hands, and smashed one fed's left arm when he had it in front of his heart. Guy hit in the arm was the one who ended up finally killing both of the suspects. Worked his shotgun one-handed and wounded them, then finished them off with 357s to the brain from a few feet away when they were in an FBI car trying to escape."

Henry saw his friend's point immediately.

"So if the suspect had been shooting a real gun..." Henry said, thinking out loud.

"Like a Garand," Max broke in.

"Yeah, like a Garand, he would have shot right through that fed's arm and into his heart. And the fed wouldn't have been alive to kill him."

"Right."

"And if he'd been shooting a Garand, he would have killed the guy he hit in the neck, too, instead of just putting him on the sidelines for a few hours."

"Right."

"And if he'd been shooting a Garand, he would have also killed the guy he shot through the window glass instead of just peppering him with fragments, because a .30 caliber ball round wouldn't have come apart." "Right."

"So now we've got five dead agents instead of two. And one of the remaining three is still running around looking for his gun, so he's no threat. And I take it the suspects were not wearing body armor, and if they had been, they would have sustained far fewer wounds?"

"Right again on all counts."

"Shit," Max Collins said. "When Frank Hamer killed Bonnie and Clyde in the 'thirties, they found all kinds of stuff in the Model A. Couple BARs, bunch of pistols, and a shitload of ammunition. Couple thousand rounds, as I recall."

"You're kidding," Pete Malloy said.

"No, I'm sure of it."

"You know," Stokely Meier added, "we got a book here on Frank Hamer I was reading the other day." He grinned, walked over to the bookshelf, and opened a volume. It took him a few seconds to find the spot he was looking for.

"Over a dozen guns and over five thousand rounds of ammo. Three BARs with a hundred loaded magazines, which shows a certain sense of style for a couple of inbred Okies. Also seven .45 autos with a bunch of loaded mags." He looked up at the group. "I guess bank robbers in the 'thirties were a little more hard-core than they are today." Henry and Tom looked at each other. Henry thought that John Browning's BAR was the finest small arms development in history. Tom Fleming felt the same way about the Browning-designed .45 Automatic.

"The feds lucked out that only two of them are dead," Max declared.

"You could say that," Tom Fleming admitted.

"They lucked out one other way, too," Pete Malloy added. The group turned to look at the retired cop. "The feds went after a couple of bank robbers. Bank robbers are pretty uncommon, and nobody I know has any sympathy for 'em."

Everyone in the shop knew what Pete was getting at. It was an issue that was being discussed that afternoon in gun stores all around the country: If this is what happens when the feds go after a couple of bank robbers who know they're in the wrong, what's going to happen to the feds when they go after a couple million trained, motivated, heavily armed citizens who haven't done anything worse than exercise their Constitutional rights?