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and patience and thinking. Building an initial kit of ID, weapons, accessories for our pursuit, with a lot of holes because of unknowns, that was her job under my direction. Tentative plans for escape and evasion after killing him, largely blank. Well, I had to start somewhere.
    So much for zen and machine tools. My brain was heavily involved in tactical calculus. I enjoyed it. That angered me.
    I was only too glad when she returned.
    “I need a pair of climbing gaffs, low enough profile they look like dress sandals.”
    “That’s a new one,” she said. “Very creative.” Her moué was almost a smile.
    I deliberately turned and left her to it.
    I watched from the far side of the shop as I messed about with the optical etcher. She was sure and comfortable with the machines, even for a new concept.
    When she was well occupied, I turned smoothly, drew and fired again. I put the first round low over the machine because my own guns are a lot better than the crap those punks had. Quieter, too.
    She dropped, drew and shot back. I made a surprised but instant dive behind the laser flatcutter.
    Let me be specific. She dropped, rolled, disappeared behind the mill and poked back around just enough for her left eye and the weapon. The weapon was a Benelli Model YYZ eleven millimeter compact. She was wearing form-fitting tights and a low back, sleeveless tunic that came just below her hips. Where in the hell had she stashed that cannon? I hadn’t seen any kind of holster on her.
    Her aim was pretty accurate, too. One shot dinged the floor to my right, then she held her fire. “You can come out now!” she shouted, sounded smug and cheerful, muttering an added, “Asshole,” that I wasn’t supposed to hear and pretended not to.
    “Better,” I admitted. Better, hell. She’d been fast enough I only got off two shots, and one had been nowhere near her. That was pretty damned effective.
    “I told you I could handle it,” she said, panting. There was a scrape on her right elbow and her tights were gray down the side from her dive for cover. Neither was bothering her. Good. She started reholstering the pistol in a small of the back rig under her tunic. It’s not the safest carry, if you get knocked down on your spine, but it’s not bad and it can be very discreet.
    “Fine,” I said. “Come into my office for a moment.” I turned, she followed. “Door,” I said as I entered.
    She really wasn’t going to like this, but it was another test of attitude. As she closed it, I grabbed her.
    I’m not as spry as I used to be, but I am still strong, know how to use leverage, and don’t hesitate. I gripped her wrist, pulled and twisted. That left me standing in T-stance for balance, with her backwards over my left knee. I batted her left arm aside as she yelped, and relieved her of the pistol. It went on my desk. A bit of clutching that wasn’t sexual found nothing stashed near her groin. She had a good Branch Shepherd Knives 10 cm folder clipped down her right sock, and another, smaller one hooked on her bra between her breasts. She had a collar tab knife, the type that are very popular among wannabes and not much good, but can still cut, in the neck of the tunic.
    “Tell me if I missed any or I’ll go probing,” I said.
    “Ouch! That’s it!” she said. “Spare magazine in the holster.”
    I twisted her back to her feet, a process that confused her. She’d been swept over, held immobile by her own mass across my knee, now was back on her feet and disarmed and intimately if professionally felt up. It had taken me seven seconds. I said, “Yeah, that was pretty good shooting. Right up to the point where you got captured.” She could be proud of what she did, but she wasn’t going to get cocky or I’d slam her down.
    She calmly looked at me and said, “I think I understand now.”
    “You have a start,” I said. “I believe I can rely on you.”
    “Good to know,” she said, and fixed me with a stare. “When do I get