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“What are the odds this shooter has something like that?” Eve began.
“If he does, he could’ve taken the shot from goddamn Queens. I’d really like a look.”
“You just want to play with the toys, but fine.”
“We’ll ta
ke the elevator.” Roarke gestured.
“You should have a look yourself,” Lowenbaum told Eve. “Get a gauge.”
“I’ve seen your weapon, Lowenbaum. I’ve used a laser rifle a time or two.”
“It’s more likely your shooter’s using a tactical—something in that range.” Lowenbaum stepped on the elevator with them. “Three strikes like that, in that time frame? You’ve got someone who’s got possession and training of a long-range laser rifle.”
“Law enforcement, military—or former in either. I’ll get a list of collectors to add to that.”
Eve stuck her hands in her pockets as the elevator opened outside the big secured doors of Roarke’s weapons room.
Roarke laid his hand on the palm plate.
When the doors opened, Lowenbaum let out a sound a man might make when seeing a naked woman.
She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Roarke’s collection was a history of weaponry. Broadswords, stunners, thin silver foils, muskets, revolvers, maces, blasters, machine guns, combat knives.
The glass display cases held centuries of death.
She gave Lowenbaum a minute to wander and gawk.
“You and Roarke can play with all the shoot-it, stab-it, stun-it, and blow-the crap-out-of-it toys later. Right now . . .”
She gestured toward the display of laser weapons.
Obliging her, Roarke deactivated the locks, opened the glass, took out the Peregrine.
She’d never seen it, or its like before. And admitted, to herself, she’d like to test it out. But she said nothing as Roarke took it from its place, offered it to Lowenbaum.
“Is it charged?”
“It’s not, no. That would be . . . breaking the rules.” And Roarke smiled.
With a half laugh, Lowenbaum lifted the weapon—black as death, sleek as a snake—to his shoulder. “Lightweight. Our tacticals weigh in at five-point-three pounds. Add another eight ounces if you’re carrying the optimum scope. Spare batt’s another three ounces. This is what, three pounds and change?”
“Three and two. It’ll sync with a PPC, or you can use its infrared.” Now Roarke opened the door, took out a palm-sized handheld. “This will read up to fifteen miles. Battery life is seventy-two hours, full use, though I’m warned it will start to heat up at about forty-eight if not rested. Recharges in under two minutes.”
Lowenbaum lowered it, turned it over it his hands. “You try it out?”
“I did. Packs a recoil, but I’m told they’re working on that.”
“Hit anything?”
“Simulation only. Rang the bell for me at a mile and a quarter.”
With obvious regret, Lowenbaum handed it back to Roarke. “She’s a beaut. But here’s your more likely.” He gestured at the bulkier weapon on display. “A military- or police-issue tactical. They haven’t changed much in the last five or six years. I’m going to say, high probability, he owns his weapon. It’s not something you take home after your tour like your service weapon. These are checked in and out, every incident. Most likely, again, for three strikes in that time frame, he had it on a bi- or tripod. Moving targets, and the first strike? She was moving at a good clip. Strike from one of these from a distance of—say a mile? It takes two and a half seconds to go from weapon to target. There’s wind speed to consider, but that’s about what you’ve got.”
“You have to build that into the shot. Distance, wind speed, angle—speed of movement of the target.” Eve nodded. It told her the shooter had watched his targets for a while, judged their relative speed on the ice.
“I never used a bipod—or not since weapons training. How much weight there, how big?”
