Persuader

reached up and pressed the P14's muzzle into my lower lip, right where Paulie had hit me. Then he reached down with his left hand and burrowed in my pocket. Came out with the Beretta. Dropped it next to Duffy's Glock.
    "You next," he said to Villanueva. He kept the P14 where it was. It was cold and hard. I could feel the muzzle's pressure on my loose teeth. Villanueva dropped his Glock on the floor. Harley raked all three guns behind him with his foot. Then he stepped backward.
    "OK," he said. "Now get over here by the wall." He wheeled us around until he was next to the crates and we were lined up against the back wall.
    "There's one more of us," Villanueva said. "He isn't here." Mistake, I thought. Harley just smiled.
    "So call him," he said. "Tell him to come on down." Villanueva said nothing. It felt like a dead end. Then it turned into a trap.
    "Call him," Harley said again. "Right now, or I'll start shooting." Nobody moved.
    "Call him, or the woman gets a bullet in the thigh."
    "She's got the phone," Villanueva said.
    "In my purse," Duffy said.
    "And where's your purse?"
    "In the car." Good answer, I thought.
    "Where's the car?" Harley asked.
    "Close by," Duffy said.
    "The Taurus next to the stuffed animal place?" Duffy nodded. Harley hesitated.
    "You can use the phone in the office," he said. "Call the guy."
    "I don't know his number," Duffy said.
    Harley just looked at her.
    "It's on my speed dial," she said. "I don't have it memorized."
    "Where's Teresa Daniel?" I asked.
    Harley just smiled. Asked and answered, I thought.
    "Is she OK?" Villanueva said. "Because she better be."
    "She's fine," Harley said. "Mint condition."
    "You want me to go get the phone?" Duffy asked.
    "We'll all go," Harley said. "After you put these crates back in order. You messed them up. You shouldn't have done that." He stepped up next to Duffy and put the muzzle of his gun to her temple.
    "I'll wait right here," he said. "And the woman can wait here with me. Like my own personal life insurance policy." Villanueva glanced at me. I shrugged. I figured we were nominated to do the quartermaster work. I stepped forward and picked up the hammer from the floor.
    Villanueva picked up the lid from the first Grail crate. Glanced at me again. I shook my head just enough for him to see. I would have loved to bury the hammer in Harley's head.
    Or his mouth. I could have solved his dental problems permanently. But a hammer was no good against a guy with a gun to a hostage's head. And anyway, I had a better idea.
    And it would depend on a show of compliance. So I just held the hammer and waited politely until Villanueva had the lid in place over the fat yellow missile tube. I butted it with the heel of my hand until the nails found their original holes. Then I hammered them in and stood back and waited again.
    We did the second Grail crate the same way. Lifted it up and piled it back on top of the first one. Then we did the RPG-7s. Nailed down the lids and stacked them exactly like we had found them. Then we did the VAL Silent Snipers. Harley watched us carefully. But he was relaxing a little. We were compliant. Villanueva seemed to understand what we were aiming for. He had caught on fast. He found the lid for the Makarov crate. Paused with it halfway into position.
    "People buy these things?" he said.
    Perfect, I thought. His tone was conversational, and a little puzzled. And professionally interested, just like a real ATF guy might be.
    "Why wouldn't they buy them?" Harley said.
    "Because they're junk," I said. "You ever tried one?" Harley shook his head.
    "Let me show you something," I said. "OK?" Harley kept the gun pressed hard against Duffy's temple. "Show me what?" I put my hand in the crate and came out with one of the pistols. Blew wood shavings off it and held it up. It was old and scratched. Well used.
    "Very crude mechanism," I said. "They simplified the original Walther design. Ruined it, really. Double-action, like the original, but the pull is a nightmare." I pointed the gun at the ceiling and put my finger on the trigger and used just my thumb on the back of the butt to exaggerate the effect. Pincered my hand and pulled the trigger.
    The mechanism grated like a balky stick shift in an old car and the gun twisted awkwardly in my grip.
    "Piece of junk," I said.
    I did it again, listening to the bad sound and letting the gun twist and rock between my finger and thumb.
    "Hopeless," I said. "No chance of hitting anything unless it's