Jack noticed the FMJ on the box. “Full jacket?”

“Hollows or soft-points could be deflected going through the wipes inside the suppressor.”

Jack grimaced. “Don’t want that. And speaking of wipes, can I borrow your gloves a minute?”

Abe reached under the counter and produced a pair of cotton gloves, originally white, now gray with grime and gun oil. Jack slipped them on.

Abe was staring at him. “Those rounds have maybe someone’s name on them?”

Jack said nothing. He poured out a dozen rounds and wiped them with the gloves. Then he began loading them into the P-98’s clip. He routinely and obsessively collected his spent brass, but in certain situations it simply wasn’t possible. In such a case, he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints behind.

“Jack,” Abe said softly. “You’re mad at some people, I know, and with good reason. And you’ve got that look in your eyes that means big tsuris for somebody, but is this the way you want to go? This isn’t you.”

Jack glanced up at Abe, saw the concern in his face. “Not to worry, Abe. The target is cardboard.”

“Ah. Now it’s all clear,” Abe said. “Especially the need for a suppressor. You’re going to shoot a box and you don’t want to startle its fellows. That’s my Jack: always considerate. And where is this cardboard?”

“Brooklyn.”

The last place Jack wanted to go tonight was Brooklyn. He had a throbbing headache, his scorched skin itched and burned, and the healing scalp cut stabbed periodic zingers down to his left eye. Add to that the general lousy feeling the drug had left in its wake, and the only place he wanted to go was bed. But he needed to settle this. Tonight.

He wiped the clip and slid it into the grip; it seated with a solid click. The last item in the package was a new SOB holster. He removed the suppressor, wiped and pocketed it, wiped the pistol, then slipped it into the holster, and the holster within the waistband at the small of his back. He let the rear of the extra-large turtleneck jersey fall back over it.

“Since when do you wear turtlenecks?” Abe said.

“Since an hour ago.” The long sleeves and high collar covered his burns. And he might have another use for the rolled collar. “Check this out.”

He pulled—gently—a floppy khaki boonie hat down low on his head, then slipped on oversize aviator glasses.

“How do I look?”

“Like a Soldier of Fortune subscriber. But it does cover a multitude of sins.”

Jack had checked himself out at home. The getup hid his stitches and his black eyes. Didn’t know if a police sketch of him was making the rounds after this morning’s escapades or if the cops had issued a BOLO for a man with a scalp laceration and a scorched, banged-up face.

Jack headed for the door. “Breakfast tomorrow. I’m buying. What do you want?”

“Eggs Benedict, but with foie gras instead of ham.”