wiped it clean on the grass and stuck it back into its holder.

 

He hefted the box with the gun and ran back to his car, got in, and drove off.

He hit the main road and punched the gas.

 

As he roared down the road he ran his hand over the box containing the M11-B.

 

A collector’s item.

 

The vaunted M11.

 

More than thirty years ago a revolver had been held against his head for five

minutes. Only the M11 wasn’t a revolver; it was a semiautomatic with a magazine

to hold its bullets.

 

That’s why Rogers had not simply taken the revolver from the woman he’d killed

in the alley.

 

Unlike a revolver, which could only fire once the cylinder with a bullet in it

lined up with the hammer, a semi would fire if there was only one bullet in the

mag or thirteen. You couldn’t play Russian roulette with a mag pistol, not

unless you wanted no chance to live.

 

And Rogers wanted no chance for the person to live.