Oh well. He’d been hoping to hear otherwise. “Franks sure is a hard one to read, isn’t he?” Stark chuckled. “That’s hardly unusual. I do hope he enjoys his forced retirement. The Bureau will be better off without him.” Radabaugh didn’t even try to argue. That was probably smart. Stark noticed that his bodyguard was looking at the entrance. Stark turned and saw that Franks had come to the cafeteria. “Well, speak of the devil . . .”

Franks looked odd. Stark couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. They’d served together, and Stark had looked at that ugly mug daily for nearly a year. Sure, it had been a different face sewn on back then, but no matter what flesh he was wearing, Franks was always the same sullen, morose bastard. Right now was different though. It was because Franks seemed . . . happy. Franks reached inside his suit as he walked toward them.

“Stop right there.” The bodyguard stepped in front of Stark.

Franks’ pistol came out in a flash and he fired a controlled pair into the bodyguard’s chest followed an instant later by a third round to the head, just in case he’d been wearing a vest. Stark yelped as blood hit him in the face. Surprised, Stark slipped and fell as Franks did the same thing to the other bodyguard standing by the soda machine.

In less than two seconds Franks had just Mozambiqued both his bodyguards. It didn’t take too long to process that, because Stark had one hell of an instinct for self-preservation, with flight usually beating fight. He rolled over and crawled for cover. Radabaugh dove behind a table as Franks shot at him and the surprised MCB staff sitting there. Most of them died clueless.

“Return fire!” Stark shouted as he scrambled behind a counter, not realizing that he’d just signed a memo banning guns from the facility. Luckily, that rule didn’t apply to the guy who’d given it, so Stark reached for the Glock 29 on his hip.

But Franks had followed him. He walked around the counter and casually shot Stark in the right hand.

Stark screamed.

Franks pointed his pistol at Stark’s face.

Terrified, Stark lifted his trembling hands. “Franks, please . . .” The gun shifted down. There was a flash and a roar of thunder. It was like a lightning bolt through his gut. Heat began to radiate through his body and out onto the floor. Stark watched incredulously as blood came pouring out the hole in his abdomen. “What the fuck, man?” he demanded, and then it really started to hurt.

The slide was locked back on Franks’ pistol. He looked at it quizzically, as if surprised that he’d run out already. As Franks reached for a spare, he noticed Radabaugh was running toward the dead bodyguard’s gun. Franks went after him.