“I told you,” Burke said. “The wrist is no match for the torso.”

The agent looked at him like a junkyard dog who hadn’t eaten in a week. The man massaged his wrist and said, “Now the roles are reversed. What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

Burke considered that and said, “Yes.”

Then he aimed at the outer edge of the man’s left thigh and squeezed the trigger.

The pop of the gun discharging was louder than Burke had expected, especially in the confined space of the home’s kitchen. His ears rang loudly, almost drowning out the man’s screaming. He had shot a gun before, but only after firing did he remember that he had always worn hearing protection in those prior moments. Hopefully, he hadn’t suffered any permanent damage to the tiny hair cells and bones which comprised his auditory system.

“Give me that,” Carter said, snatching the gun from his hand. “Grab the trash cans and my pistol.”

“Do I get to keep the Glock? Shouldn’t I have a gun too?”

Carter looked at him in dismay, eyes wide and forehead wrinkled. “You just shot a CIA agent.”

“In the leg.”

The agent was still on the ground, bleeding and crying in pain.

“Shooting someone is shooting someone. Plus, your mother made me promise that I wouldn’t give you a gun. She was worried you’d hurt yourself.”

Burke growled in frustration, grabbed up the trash cans, threw Carter’s pistol into one can atop the broken hard drives, and headed for the door. As he left the house, he couldn’t help but smile. He had taken a technique that he had learned in theory and applied it to a real-world scenario, and that was always so exhilarating.

Chapter 76

Sam Carter’s heart pounded, but not with a youthful adrenaline, which back in the day had pumped him up to take down a suspect. Now, all that adrenaline made him feel like his arteries were closing up and his lungs were filled with sand. Burke sat behind the wheel, a small smile on his face, and a gleam in his eye.

“You didn’t have to shoot him,” Carter said. “We could have used the plastic restraints on him.”

Burke shrugged. “I suppose, but it was just a flesh wound.”

“Flesh wounds are for movies, kid. Getting shot is always bad. Hell, it could have ricocheted off a bone and struck his femoral artery, then he’d be bled out on the floor back there.”

Burke’s face fell. “Suppose I got too carried away.”

“You did good, kid. And I’m sure he’ll be fine. Just learn from it for next time.”

With a nod, Burke merged the Firebird onto the I-515, heading north toward Vegas.

“Where does this recovery genius of yours live?” Carter asked.

“Paradise, out by McCarran,” Burke replied, the latter referring to the international airport.

Fifteen minutes later, Burke pulled the Firebird up to a beautiful Mediterranean-style home faced with cream textured stucco and topped with burnt orange terra-cotta tiles. It was large and beautiful. A three-car garage—each of its stalls covered by a long porte-cochère—jutted from the home’s right side. The front had tall windows, and Carter could see the cathedral ceilings inside. The landscaping was flawless, red rock bordered by white rock and filled with thriving shrubbery and small trees. He could see the signs of an in-ground pool around the back.