Chapter 1

Ellis Parker took his stance, lined up his sights on the target that was twenty-five yards away, and gently, so gently, squeezed the trigger. Hearing protection made the shot sound like a snap, but the kick of the .357 SIG rounds felt good against his palms. The fourth-generation Glock he was holding belonged to Miss Maggie, the Silver Bullet Range’s owner.

The Silver Bullet was the premier indoor range in New Amsterdam proper, and Ellis, who still thought of himself as a hick from the Oklahoma panhandle, felt privileged to serve her facility and her clientele. Ellis was even more privileged to have friends who could wheedle Miss Maggie into allowing her employee to bring all his friends for fun and games after business hours. The chief of those friends was Maxwell Clark. Ellis swore that Clark could persuade a stone to cry water in the desert, but Ellis had sweetened the deal with a promise to clean up the range after they were done.

Ellis’s semi-automatic spoke two more times before being drowned by the roar of an automatic machine gun. Tim Akkard and Clark stood by Tim’s chest of toys, watching Miss Maggie use an AK-47. Both Clark and Tim had Class 3 licenses and were putting in time at the firing range to keep their classifications. Tim’s collection of firearms was impressive. The AK-47 had been captured in Bosnia. One of Tim’s earliest stints in the military was with the peacekeeping troops deployed there in 1995. Ellis had heard plenty of AK-47s in Afghanistan, and the rattle of that loose piece of shit made his teeth grind.

Frowning, Ellis put another three rounds in a nice tight group on the forehead of his target with Bin Laden’s face on it. With the last shot, the slide popped out, and Ellis released the clip, checked to make sure the firearm was empty, and set it on the firing bench in front of him, pointing downrange. He checked the two lanes to the left of him and grinned at Professor Germain’s set. Clark’s husband had fine form. The sandy-haired guy in the next lane over, however, creeped Ellis out. Clark had introduced the man as Mr. Fawkes while practically dragging the silent man into the facility. Ellis knew that Clark and Mr. Fawkes worked together, but Clark was never clear about what they did.

What really made Ellis’s neck hairs stand on end was that Mr. Fawkes was using a suppressor. A silencer in movie-speak, the damned thing was supposed to make shit out of accuracy, but the groupings that Ellis could see were phenomenal. Nearly as good as Germain’s, and the professor could shoot.

Everyone’s heads turned, however, when the Colt 9mm submachine gun started to sing. Clark had it braced against his right shoulder, none of that shooting from the hip idiocy. Clark really knew how to handle the thing, and where Tim had gotten the seven inch barrel instead of the standard ten and a half, Ellis didn’t want to know. Clark’s biceps bulged, brass casings scattered like raindrops on a puddle, and the target evaporated. Clark grinned like a coyote in a chicken coop. Clark was happy. It was a rare, golden thing.

Ellis watched in rapt attention. Clark eased up, threw back his head, and howled, “I am Ironman, motherfuckers!”

“More like fuckin’ Robin,” Tim called back, and Miss Maggie snorted loudly enough to be heard through the hearing protection.

“That makes Daniel the playboy with the gadgets, right?” Clark yelled.

“What?” Daniel barked from Ellis’s left.

“BATMAN!” Clark clarified.

“Yeah?” Mr. Fawkes screamed in British.

“Oh,fuck no,” Tim cried.

“If the toolbelt fits!” Clark cackled.

“I’m killin’ somethin’ with a fish?” Mr. Fawkes yelled.

“NO!” everyone bellowed simultaneously.

With his weapon safely on the bench, Ellis laughed until everyone was staring at him. He waved them all off with a shake of his head and a grin big enough for a Jack O’Lantern. Clark winked at him, and even Tim seemed pleased. When they were all back to firing at their targets, Ellis pulled in his, neatly packed up his piece, and took the case with him to clear the lane for someone else. He wandered over to sit on an observer’s stool at the back.

Clark cocked his head at Ellis, and Ellis waved him into the empty lane. Ellis had met Clark and Tim at a support meeting for veterans with PTSD more than five years ago, well before Clark had ever known Daniel existed. Now Ellis counted the curse of nightmares, daytime triggering, and memories of horror as a blessing, because during those meetings Clark had taken Ellis under his wing. It turned out Clark was one of the owners of Break, a BDSM club. Clark had been exactly the kind of mentor and sadistic dominant Ellis had needed to channel and use the ugly emotions that spilled over from what he had seen in the Afghan war.