-- George Herbert Clarke PROLOGUE The Hechler-Koch roared in the confined space of the shooting booth and its spent 9MM shell casings bounced and pinged on the concrete floor. The 20 total shots had taken less than 30 seconds. Scarne ejected the empty magazine and rammed another one home. He worked the slide and resumed firing. When he finally put the automatic down, the smell of cordite was heavy in the air. Scarne took off his ear protection and pushed the button that would bring the man-silhouette back to him from its position 50 feet down range. As the target whirred closer, even at a distance he could see that there was little left of the face and the area where the heart would be. “That’s some shooting, Jake.” Scarne took the shredded target from its holder and turned around. He hadn’t seen the other man enter the range. Fred somebody, F.B.I., from the Anti-Terrorism Task Force. A few Bureau agents on Police Commissioner Richard Condon’s “not assholes” list got to use the secret N.Y.P.D.
