that looked out past a large, Roman nose and strong arms that bulged under the short sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt. His skin was the color of the desert on a summer day, light brown blended with a subtle undertone of red.
She watched him lay out two Beretta nine millimeter automatics on the shooting bench.
"How was Arizona?" she said.
"It was great. You been down there?"
"Monument Valley and Four Corners. I've never seen colors like that, the way the light paints the rocks and the desert."
Ronnie nodded. "You can let your mind go in all that space. When the rains come and the clouds build up over the Sacred Mountains, it's one of the most beautiful sights in the world."
He reached in his pocket, took a picture from his wallet. He handed it to Selena. It showed a stout, older woman in front of a low building of wood capped with an earthen roof. A deep red velvet dress, almost purple, reached to her ankles. Around her neck and on her arms and hands she wore heavy jewelry of silver and turquoise. Next to her stood a man in jeans, a plaid shirt and a flat brimmed black Stetson sporting a silver Concho hat band.
"This is my Auntie and Uncle. They're both traditional Navajo. He's a Singer."
"A singer? You mean like rock and roll?"
Ronnie laughed, a deep, belly laugh. "No, a Singer is...like a doctor. Only he's a doctor for restoring harmony, not a doctor with pills. When something bad happens, like sickness or if you break one of the traditional taboos, you call in a Singer. He helps you restore personal harmony. Then everyone feels better."
"Are you traditional?"
"No. It's mostly the old people. But I speak the language and keep the stories in my mind. So I guess I am, in some ways."
He put the picture away and picked up one of the Berettas.
"I don't like these much," he said. "You find them everywhere, so you need to be familiar with them. Our troops carry them and some of our allies."
"Why don't you like them?"
"It takes three or four rounds from one of these to put down someone doped up and ready to die for Allah. Not enough punch with nine mil. Nick likes his H-K. I like Glocks, like the one you've got. They're light, they're reliable and they'll stop anyone."
They shot for a while. Ronnie showed her how to field strip, clean and reassemble the pistol. He had her practice until it felt familiar to her. He timed her and made her increase her speed. Then he blindfolded her and had her practice some more. After another hour he began packing up.
"How long have you known Nick?" Selena asked.
"Eight years. We were in Recon together. Special Ops. He was the best officer I ever served with. Never asked us to do anything he wouldn't."
"Were you there when he got hit? With that grenade?"
Something flickered across Ronnie's face, was gone.
"Yeah, I was there. But I don't really want to talk about it."
"Sorry."
"No, it's not like that." He smiled at her. "I just don't want to talk about it."
"Neither does Nick," she said.
Ronnie picked up a pistol, set it down again.
"You serious about him?"
Selena picked up one of her targets. Round holes in the black.
"He's still in love with Megan," she said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Back in her rooms at the Mayflower, Selena dressed in a yellow sport bra and workout pants. She put on a light over shirt to cover her holster and a pair of running shoes. Rule one at the Project: never go anywhere without your gun. Time to go for a run, go to the gym, clear her mind.
She exited the building and headed for DuPont Circle. She didn't see the blond man across the street taking pictures of her with a telephoto lens. She ran along the busy streets, dodging traffic, feet pounding on the pavement, the sweat building, waiting for the burn. She ran, circled back, slowed, came to the gym. She went inside.
The place was cool with air conditioning. Filters tried to take away the odors of testosterone and sweat. The A/C couldn't quite pull it off. There was a faint, sour smell of deodorant and
She watched him lay out two Beretta nine millimeter automatics on the shooting bench.
"How was Arizona?" she said.
"It was great. You been down there?"
"Monument Valley and Four Corners. I've never seen colors like that, the way the light paints the rocks and the desert."
Ronnie nodded. "You can let your mind go in all that space. When the rains come and the clouds build up over the Sacred Mountains, it's one of the most beautiful sights in the world."
He reached in his pocket, took a picture from his wallet. He handed it to Selena. It showed a stout, older woman in front of a low building of wood capped with an earthen roof. A deep red velvet dress, almost purple, reached to her ankles. Around her neck and on her arms and hands she wore heavy jewelry of silver and turquoise. Next to her stood a man in jeans, a plaid shirt and a flat brimmed black Stetson sporting a silver Concho hat band.
"This is my Auntie and Uncle. They're both traditional Navajo. He's a Singer."
"A singer? You mean like rock and roll?"
Ronnie laughed, a deep, belly laugh. "No, a Singer is...like a doctor. Only he's a doctor for restoring harmony, not a doctor with pills. When something bad happens, like sickness or if you break one of the traditional taboos, you call in a Singer. He helps you restore personal harmony. Then everyone feels better."
"Are you traditional?"
"No. It's mostly the old people. But I speak the language and keep the stories in my mind. So I guess I am, in some ways."
He put the picture away and picked up one of the Berettas.
"I don't like these much," he said. "You find them everywhere, so you need to be familiar with them. Our troops carry them and some of our allies."
"Why don't you like them?"
"It takes three or four rounds from one of these to put down someone doped up and ready to die for Allah. Not enough punch with nine mil. Nick likes his H-K. I like Glocks, like the one you've got. They're light, they're reliable and they'll stop anyone."
They shot for a while. Ronnie showed her how to field strip, clean and reassemble the pistol. He had her practice until it felt familiar to her. He timed her and made her increase her speed. Then he blindfolded her and had her practice some more. After another hour he began packing up.
"How long have you known Nick?" Selena asked.
"Eight years. We were in Recon together. Special Ops. He was the best officer I ever served with. Never asked us to do anything he wouldn't."
"Were you there when he got hit? With that grenade?"
Something flickered across Ronnie's face, was gone.
"Yeah, I was there. But I don't really want to talk about it."
"Sorry."
"No, it's not like that." He smiled at her. "I just don't want to talk about it."
"Neither does Nick," she said.
Ronnie picked up a pistol, set it down again.
"You serious about him?"
Selena picked up one of her targets. Round holes in the black.
"He's still in love with Megan," she said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Back in her rooms at the Mayflower, Selena dressed in a yellow sport bra and workout pants. She put on a light over shirt to cover her holster and a pair of running shoes. Rule one at the Project: never go anywhere without your gun. Time to go for a run, go to the gym, clear her mind.
She exited the building and headed for DuPont Circle. She didn't see the blond man across the street taking pictures of her with a telephoto lens. She ran along the busy streets, dodging traffic, feet pounding on the pavement, the sweat building, waiting for the burn. She ran, circled back, slowed, came to the gym. She went inside.
The place was cool with air conditioning. Filters tried to take away the odors of testosterone and sweat. The A/C couldn't quite pull it off. There was a faint, sour smell of deodorant and
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