“It seems there was a man who wanted that girl killed, the one in those filthy movies. He planted the second bomb. He was killed by the police.”

“The press thinks he was behind all the bombings?” William asked.

“It seems so. To cover up what he did.”

“Media,” said Harris. “Blessing and a curse.”

John finished assembling the Kalashnikov, closed the bolt, put the safety on and stacked the gun on a rosewood rack next to a Thompson submachine gun, a Remington pump shotgun, an Enfield .303, an M1 carbine and a .30-06 bolt-action. “What do you two think?”

Harris said, “All Gabriel's work is wasted if they think someone else did the bombings... You know, though, it is a good smoke screen. There's no pressure on him now. It's a good thing we picked up the count with the passage about the third angel, after the second bomb.”

William used a tiny periscope to study the bore of his gun, looking for any bits of gunpowder he'd missed. “We can't just stop. Brother Harris is right.”

“No. We can't just stop,” John said slowly. He poured water into a Mr. Coffee and began to brew a pot of decaf. Like the others here he felt caffeine was a sinful stimulant. “But I'm not sure I agree about Gabe. The police aren't going to ignore the other bombings. The experts will finish their reports, and they'll find out that someone else was behind them.”

Harris said, “Gabriel will stay to see things through. He won't hesitate to sacrifice himself.”

John said, “But he shouldn't. He's too valuable.”

“Then let's give up on New York,” William said. “Send him to Los Angeles. Hollywood. I've said all along we should have begun there. Nobody knows Gabriel in California. All his connections are in Manhattan.”

“With all respect,” John said, “I think we've got to finish what we started.” He spoke softly, as if it pained him to disagree.

John's aura of gentleness was misleading. Harris and William hunted for deer and geese with that excited, hungry love of the hunt. John did not. John had been a marine in Nam and had never once spoken about his tours of duty. Harris and William knew that the ones who didn't talk about killing were the ones who had the most personal relations with it.

John said, “We can't leave New York yet.” He shrugged. “That's how I feel.”

William hawked and spit into a linen handkerchief. “All right. How does Gabriel feel?”

Harris snapped home the bolt of his machine gun. “He'll do whatever we want him to.”

“But he should act fast.”

John poured coffee into mugs and handed them to William and Harris. “Oh, he will.”

William nodded, then said, “What's the target going to be?”

John's eyes flickered to an illuminated crucifix above his desk, then he looked at the other men.

“I sometimes feel great temerity at times like this,” Harris said. “Deciding who should live, who should die.”