Deadfall by Robert Liparulo Page B

slipped into embargoed countries. True, such examples accounted for a miniscule percentage of the products Brendan Page’s companies produced, but Tom thought it interesting that so many accusations of impropriety were directed at the holdings of one man’s empire. Said something about that man. He knew nothing of Brendan Page’s family, his children. They had kept a low profile, as the children of the outrageously rich often do.
    He asked,“How does someone with your money, your family, come to . . . to this ?” He gestured at the Hummer, at the town.
    Declan stared at him. “You want the George Mallory answer or something more profound?”
    When Mallory had been asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, his famous answer was “Because it’s there.” Tom thought Declan meant “Because I can.” If his motivations were that crass, how could any answer satisfy Tom’s curiosity?
    Declan continued. “Now, do you want to know the rules of the game? Or do you want to talk family?”
    That Tom definitely did not want to do. If Declan’s research was as thorough as he had implied, he must know about Laura and Dillon. Was the question a threat to bring them into the equation, not in conversation but in person?
    â€œWhat rules?”Tom asked.
    â€œActually, there aren’t any.You run, we try to kill you. No, wait.We do kill you, but you run as though you have a chance.”
    â€œAnd if I get away?”
    â€œYou won’t.”
    â€œIf . . .”
    Declan sighed heavily. He waved to Kyrill, the brilliant game programmer, and Bad, champion of the board. From opposite ends of the street, they obeyed, moving toward him, lugging their weapons.To Tom, he said, “Do you recognize their guns?”
    Tom eyed them again as they approached. He tilted his head toward Kyrill. “Fifty-cal sniper’s rifle. Some hunters use it.”
    â€œAnd the other one?”
    Tom shook his head.
    â€œIt’s a variation of the Gewehr G11. Uses casingless ammo. That means it weighs the same as a fully loaded M16, six pounds, but it holds three times as many rounds.”
    Bad stepped in, heard Declan’s words, and pulled a long rectangular magazine off the top of the weapon. He held it up for Tom to appreciate. The bullets inside were square pegs. It reminded him of a PEZ dispenser.
    â€œWhen it shoots a bullet,” Declan continued, “the slug comes out of the barrel and the rest of the cartridge ignites and is gone.There’s nothing to eject in preparation for the next round.That makes it an extraordinarily fast-firing gun. The designers studied the dynamics of firing bursts of three rounds, a common pattern for automatic weapons.They found that the first shot’s recoil causes the next two bullets to go high.”
    Declan spoke in such a deadpan voice,Tom wondered if the man was capable of emotion. More troubling was his suspicion that Declan did indeed experience feelings, but the events required to tap them were both extreme and intense. He wouldn’t want to be around when Declan needed a jolt of emotion.
    Too late, he thought.
    Bad slipped the magazine back onto the gun. It ran the length of what Tom assumed was a barrel.
    â€œThis thing fires at a rate of two thousand rounds a minute.That’s three rounds in one-tenth of a second.Three rounds before the shooter even feels a recoil, so each bullet hits its target.”
    He gestured to Bad, who glanced around, spotted a target, and aimed.
    Tom realized the gun was pointed at Beggar, one of the town’s innumerable stray dogs. The bony mutt was a block away, sniffing at the curb. Before Tom could protest, the weapon coughed, a quick, throat-clearing sound. Beggar spun and flipped, much of his motion lost in a mist of blood and fur. He hit the curb and didn’t move, not even a twitch. Tom had no doubt all three bullets had found their mark.
    Bad continued to hold his aim on the