Morgan Stark stared down the long, narrow tunnel that was his new, two station underground target range. He knew he would have to go upstairs and end his work day soon, but he had this new gun to test and that was work too, the kind he liked.

His hearing protection looked like stereo headphones. They fit snugly, the headband crushing his short crinkly hair on top. He could hear the comforting sigh of the induction fans, because the electronic earphones employed special valves in each muff that let normal sound in. They only reacted to stop high level impulse noise from striking his ears. That was good, because he was about to make a very loud noise.

Morgan lifted the matte black Desert Eagle automatic pistol and held it in a two handed grip. He stared through amber glasses down the sights at a man shaped paper target. Morgan had better vision than almost anyone he knew, and he wanted to keep it that way. The lenses covering his light brown eyes were safety glasses.

From a rock steady stance, Morgan fired one .44 magnum round from the big automatic. His hands shifted slightly with the kick of the slide slamming back. It wasn't nearly as bad as he expected, the pistol's weight helping to reduce recoil.

Wrapping long fingers more firmly around the rather large grip, Morgan emptied its eight-round magazine at rapid fire. This gun felt good, although at a bit over four and a half pounds fully loaded it could never replace the Hi-power he normally carried for business. The Hi-power and his special hand loaded rounds had served him well enough that day, as had his danger instincts. Did any of his employees suspect his unexplained ability to know when some peril would threaten him? He doubted anyone would believe the advance warning he felt. That was fine. He preferred it that way.

At the push of a button, the target rolled back toward Morgan on an automatic pulley. He smiled as he examined it. He had only set the target about fifty meters away. The eight big bullets had torn a single ragged hole in the middle of the paper man, less than half an inch across. Morgan didn't need to measure. He could judge distances with machine like precision.

Well, fun time was over. His new watch told him it was nearly five o'clock. It was time to lock up for the day. Morgan put the gun back in its case, planning to give it a more thorough shakedown later, and headed for the stairs. It was one short flight to the ground floor, then eighteen to his office. He was glad he had left his jacket upstairs. He wore lightweight slacks and a cotton dress shirt open at the top two buttons so he wouldn't get too sweaty on the way up. He took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

Sandy Fox's head snapped around as Morgan pushed into the outer office. Her eyes gathered him in without betraying her feelings, but she licked her lips without thinking.

"Did I miss anything, Ms. Fox?" he asked.

"Not much, Mister Stark," the young blond receptionist replied. "You have a visitor, a Mark Roberts. Says he knows you from Africa."

That brought a warm smile to Morgan's face. "Yeah. We met in Angola, late seventies. I was just a kid."

Morgan's chest was still rising and falling from running up the stairs, and the girl pushed her glasses back up her nose for a better view. He was everything she wanted in a man: intelligent, at least two inches over six feet, and muscular. Not massive like a body builder, but with the smooth, supple muscles of a gymnast. On top of it all, he was one of the handsomest black men she had ever seen. She had heard he was a soldier of fortune before cofounding Stark & O'Brian, which only added to the mystique.

She knew he saw her as a piece of office furniture, and she hoped her boss never suspected how attractive she found him. Her eyes followed him as he left the reception area, walking past his office toward the lounge.

* * *

Morgan smiled as he stepped into the room. The man waiting on the main sofa still had an air of alertness about him and this pleased Morgan. His visitor held a cup of coffee, but sprang to his feet when Morgan entered. He was six feet tall and well built, with very black, shiny skin. His hair was conservatively cut, as was his gray suit.

"Mark," Morgan said, reaching forward to shake hands. "Or should I say 'Marcus Roberto'? As I recall, you were a Swahili warrior when we met."

"Angola was a long time ago, my friend," Roberts replied. "The jungles have moved around, but the game is the same."

"Yeah, I understand you're doing your snoopin' and poopin' south of the border now," Morgan said.

"How secure is your office?"

"Didn't you notice the door?" Morgan asked, perching on a corner of the table. "It says Stark & O'Brian, Security Consultants and Crisis Management. We don't just do bodyguard work. My partner knows more about security systems than anybody I've ever met. Hell, my office is probably more secure than yours."

"Forgive me. Agency service makes you paranoid after a while. So, can we talk? It's been a long time."

"That it has," Morgan said. "And I know you want something from me. But, look, I've got some things to check out. Come take a drive with me. After that, we can stop somewhere for a drink."

"Great. We've got some catching up to do."

The sun was dipping on their left an hour later, when the two men drove in from Los Angeles International Airport by a somewhat indirect route. Roberts watched Morgan easing his Jeep CJ gently through traffic.

"Why are we driving so slowly, if I may ask."

"Just double checking the route," Morgan said. "I've been contracted by the city to provide extra security for a group of Colombian politicians coming here for a conference on drug control. The city and state are in on it of course, but we're driving them in from the airport. And I picked the hotel, since we've got to cover night security. But right now I just want to verify the travel time from the plane." Morgan glanced at his wrist as he said it.

"Nice watch. Don't remember you wearing flashy stuff like that in the old days."

"That, my friend, is a Breitling Old Navitimer II," Morgan said with obvious pride. "Eighteen carat gold and as accurate as anything you can wear. This little dial tallies seconds, that one minutes and the other one hours. The scales on the outer dial and the bezel make a circular slide rule. I've figured how to convert currency with it, and change miles to kilometers. A gift from my partner for my last birthday."

"That's what I call a partner. She the reason you gave up the mercenary business?"

"No, just wanted to settle down a little," Morgan said. "And I'm pretty well qualified for this business. I train guards, drivers and such, and provide them to those that need them. And when I get bored I've still got a lot of independence. For instance, I've been in a couple of movies, doing some stunt work. Really, this life's not all that different from being a merc. Except I don't get shot at. Well, not as much anyway."

"Yeah, I heard about the action this morning. Hope my heads up helped."

"You might have saved one of my men's life," Morgan said. "Let's grab a beer and talk about how I pay you back for that."

* * *

Morgan was proud of himself when they walked into Patrick's. Proud that he had managed to find such a place, not far from his office. It wasn't a gay bar, or a glitter bar, or a cocktail lounge, but a real bar with quiet corners and...