Chapter 6. I hit the hallway at full tilt and pushed into another gear I didn't know

I had for the 20 feet or so of straightaway ahead. If the idiot with the square jaw wanted

to think that I was running like a frightened bunny before the awesome might of his shots at

nothing in particular, that was just fine. I had to make time if this

was going to work. Dingus would need to get back on his feet and get out from behind the desk

before he could get after me at all, and that's if he charged right out like a bull moose.

My bet was that he hung back at least five seconds to make sure I wasn't waiting just behind

the door of Sam Berker's little office ready to put a hole in his head. Never get in a firefight if you don't absolutely have to,

or at least really, really want to. That was my motto. It would sound better once I had it

translated into Latin. The corollary to that rule, of course, was never to stay in a firefight

longer than was absolutely necessary.

Tall, dark, and stupid didn't strike me as all that good at whatever it was he did for a living,

but he did manage to get the drop on yours truly, so I gave him some otherwise unearned credit.

Let us assume that my long and shapely neck was at a certain amount of risk shooting it out at close quarters. Yes, I had broken a couple of laws tonight,

but the most serious had been the moment that I had fired the 22.

I had no regrets, apart from the fact that the little pop gun pulled high into the left,

wrecking the molding on Samuel Berker's doorframe,

rather than putting one in portchop's shoulder and sitting him down for questioning.

No, it's a poor workman who blames her tools.

The gun didn't pull, I missed.

I needed to work on targeting on quick draws with my little hidden piece,

but for three or four reasons, that was a bit awkward.

...