Page 80 of Assassin Anonymous

“Nonlethals.”

“What’s the gig?”

“Agency headquarters.”

A laugh grows deep in her belly and reverberates through the room. “And you want nonlethals for that?”

I shrug at her, and she shrugs back.

“Okay, then,” she says.

Like, It’s your funeral.

Maybe it is.

She crosses to the far wall, pulling a rolling table alongside her. She takes a pair of what look like brass knuckles off the wall, but they’re heavy black plastic with metal tips.

“Just got these in,” she says. “Stun knuckles. Like a Taser.”

“Nothing with electricity. Can’t risk sending someone into cardiac arrest.”

“Jesus, you’re not making this easy. Okay.”

She plucks a pistol off the wall. It’s slightly bigger than a normal gun. The body is black but the slide is orange, and there are two fat barrels on the front.

“Air pistol, loads with pellets that disperse a cloud of pepper spray. The clips hold five pellets each.” She holds it up and points to the bottom barrel. “You drop the CO canister in here. First trigger pull breaks it. When you reload a clip, you have to put in a fresh canister. It’s slow and they sometimes jam if you fire too fast.”

“I’ll take two, and as many clips as you have.”

“Then you’ll want this.” She places a gas mask on the table, with a wide, clear faceplate. “Won’t obstruct your vision. Hypoallergenic coating on the inside to prevent fogging.”

She rummages around in a drawer and comes out with a foam handle about seven inches long. She hands it to me. I test the weight—light as a freshly fallen feather—then snap it out to full length.

“Steel friction baton, twenty-one inches,” she says. “I tend to dislike the grips on most batons, but this one holds up pretty well.”

I slam the point on the counter to close it and put it on the table.

“Great,” I tell her. “Next?”

She lines up thin cylindrical grenades on the counter. Six in all.

“Flash-bang,” she says. “Nonfragmenting, nonbursting aluminum body. Anti-rolling so it’ll stay close to where you toss it. Three bursts of sound and light.” She places a slim piece of plastic next to them. “And you can set any of them to remote detonate.”

“I could use a vest.”

She opens a large drawer and pulls out a black vest and holds it up to me. “Looks about your size. Rated level four, with full side protection, and it has a cooling mesh liner.”

I test the weight, then feel the front, find it free of the telltale level-four bulk. “How do they claim that without rifle plates?” Before she can answer, I find a tag on the side with a Hebrew symbol. “Ah. Gotta love Israeli craftsmanship.”

“It’s still in development, but I got a preview,” she says. “A thirty-ought-six round is going to crack a rib, but it shouldn’t break through.” She sticks an excited finger in the air. “One last thing. This is a fun little bit of business.”

She places a small black box with a wrist strap on the table. I pick it up and put it on.

“It emits a laser that’ll overwhelm the optical nerve,” she says. “There’s a button that fixes on the palm so you can wear it without interfering with trigger pulls.”

I aim the device at the far wall, hit the button on my palm with my middle finger, and a thick dot of flashing green light appears.

“Nice. You got any kill switches?”