
“Damn, getting rusty,” muttered the ex-Marine from just behind Tom’s shoulder. He grinned suddenly. “Being honest, my street gang training didn’t really emphasize marksmanship.”
Tom barked a little laugh. Like him, Nichols was no master of the handgun. The doctor had been trained as a sniper when he was in the Marines-with a proper damn rifle, with a proper damn caliber and real by-God telescopic sights.
“Two out of three shots on time and on target are plenty good enough for me, Doc. Let’s get moving.”
Tom’s wife Rita emerged from the Crotto Fiume, which was still silent. The muttering and then shouting of the startled clientele would start soon enough, no doubt. “Done making noise out here, honey?” Rita asked. Despite the levity of the words, her voice was shaky.
“I sure hope so,” Tom replied. He also hoped his own voice didn’t sound as shaky as his wife’s-but he was pretty sure it did.
Rita shuddered as she started stepping over the bodies. “I’m never going to get used to situations like this.”
“And you shouldn’t,” put in Melissa Mailey, who emerged from the crotto, towing the shocked cardinal. “Accepting bloodshed is a necessary part of being human; failing to notice it means you’re becoming less than human. No offense, James,” she added with a glance at her Vietnam-veteran life-partner.
