Last shot

Chapter 10

The rusting horizontal slats groaned their displeasure as the metal door slid up, Walker's long shadow darkening a swath of the broad, garagelike interior. A generous space for a self-storage. He'd set up shop here at Parson Bros Stor-Yor-Self under a false name, paying the full term in cash so he could give all his tools and trinkets a home before reporting to serve his five years. The subdivided cinder-block depot sat on a throw of worthless real estate in the southern reaches of Antelope Valley. After what he'd come through, the barbed wire had been a breeze. No nighttime guard, no security cameras, nothing to distract the Parson boys from their apparent policy of considered inattentiveness.

Around the edges of Walker's unit, crates and cartons rose in the dimness. And among them, in smaller cases or folded in oilcloth, hid some of his favorite collectibles, items he'd picked up over the years at shows or smuggled back hidden in pallets sealed by diplomatic immunity. An antique musket. Flintlock dueling pistols. A stainless ten-gauge double-barreled shotgun pistol with teak handles he'd salvaged from the conning tower of a sunken U-boat. Electrical cords snaked underfoot, terminating in power strips. In the middle a patch of concrete floor remained bare, flanked by high benches.

His workshop.

He unzipped the outer pocket of a black duffel and tugged out a camo Mag-Lite. Just where he'd left it. He slid in two new C cells, gave the head a twist, and a beam hit the far wall. He jerked the combination lock from its dangle and yanked the door shut.

Walker had requisitioned a Toyota-an older model favorable to hotwiring-thoughtfully left at a gas station a jog from the San Pedro dump. A steady sixty up the 405, and he left the Camry in long-term parking near LAX. He'd picked up a newish red Accord, one of thousands in the city, from a metered spot on the street. A back window had been left down far enough for him to unlock the door, and then he'd popped the trunk and removed the tire-change kit. The ignition keyhole snapped off under pressure from the jackhandle, and then he'd jammed the flathead into the gap and twisted. Once the engine turned over, he'd made sure the pry bar had fooled the ignition system sufficiently to give him full range of the wheel, and then he'd made the drive north to the auto dealers around where Oxnard Boulevard meets Van Nuys. While the lingering salesman busied himself hawking minivans to an exasperated mother in the glow of the sole surviving overhead, Walker had removed two dealer tags from the outermost car on the lot. After dropping the old license plates down a storm drain and affixing the pleasingly blank new ones, he'd made the drive north to the 5 and hit the 14.

Aided now by the flashlight in the dark cave of his storage, he picked his way over a few cardboard boxes filled with military books and sat on the cowhide swivel stool before the U of the workbenches. He lit a hurricane lamp and the gas ministove beside it. The newfound light made visible the oilcloth bundle centered on the front bench. He slipped his hand into the stiff fabric, feeling the perfect fit of his weapon even before it emerged into view.

A Ruger Redhawk. Stainless steel. Double action. A classic six-shot, more compact and holster-friendly than its newer competitor, the Super Redhawk. A large-thread four-inch barrel increased the wall thickness where it entered the frame. Beefed-up support around the cylinder kept the specs tight even after heavy use. Not a gun lover's gun. A gun for someone who respects guns.

Even inside the drawer, his safety glasses had collected a film of dust, which he blew off before seating them on his face. He removed his necklace and let his pendant cross slide down the black cord and fall into a ceramic crucible, which he set on the gas stove. He adjusted the flame down to pure blue. Though the titanium didn't need to be alloyed, he added lead for mass and tin for castability and waited the requisite twenty minutes as the metal liquefied, becoming ready to flux. Tallow, beeswax, lubricant-he found the tiny jars with recovered instinct. He worked quickly, meticulously, and with the hands of a seasoned card dealer. The bullets that fell from the parted mold blocks were perfect sextuplets.

He repeated the process twice, then lined up the bullets on the workbench. He shot rarely and with precision and imagined that a Redhawk wheel charged with titanium bullets would serve his purpose, but it never hurt having a few spare speedloaders on hand. He filed the bullet edges and lubricated the grooves to prevent barrel leading, all the while picturing the ragged slugs of his melted cross shredding through the soft fiber of a heart.

Or several.

Prepping the cases took about a half hour and required the same exactness. He tumbled, resized, trimmed, and chamfered them. A hand's natural oil could deactivate the tiny primers, so he used tweezers and a swing-mount magnifying glass for the insertions. Next came charging the cases-his favorite part of the process. Dispensing measured allotments of powder from the hopper. The folding balance scale. The tiny aluminum funnel.

And last, cycling the press handle, firm against his palm as the rising ram seated a bullet into the perfect fit of the case mouth. It was a great deal of craft and a bit of art as well. Calming and fulfilling. All focus, devoid of thought and emotion.

He stood in the center of the clear space and stripped. When the door rolled back up, the cold bit at him. A handleless spigot by the building's corner, when cranked with his pliers, gave a steady gush. Squatting, he shoveled icy water up to his face, through his hair, under his arms. He returned to his storage space and changed into the least conspicuous clothes he found. An army-green T-shirt, tan cargo pants, white socks, black jungle boots.

He loaded his six dedicated bullets into his long-waiting Redhawk, relocked his unit, and headed into the night.