thought Christie Monroe as she watched the cylinder slowly start to turn on the Smith & Wesson 442 that was pointed at her face. The club preferred revolvers for kill guns because they didn’t leave brass lying around and wouldn’t drop a spent cartridge on the road if you had to use it from your bike. She had heard other agents joke about “the longest second” at ATF headquarters. “It’s the longest second of your life,” one agent had explained to her over a cup of coffee, “because it’s usually the last second of your life, and your body wants to stretch it out and make it last,” Another agent, who had been shot in the line of duty, swore that with his mind driven into overdrive by the fear of the moment, he had been able to watch the bullet spin from the end of the barrel and cross the room to impact squarely in the middle of his vest. “Damn good thing he was wearing kevlar,” he had snorted. Christie wasn’t wearing a vest, so head or chest, it didn’t matter.
