"
"_Zhee-zus!_" Kavaalen's eyes widened. "That must be just it!"
"Well, you got your nerve about you, I'll say that," McKenna commented.
"You sit there and talk about it like it was something that was going to
happen to Joe Doakes and Oscar Zilch." He looked at Rand intently. "You
want us to keep an eye on you?"
Rand leaned over and spat into the brass cuspidor, a gesture of
braggadocio he had picked up among the French maquis.
"Hell, no! That's the last thing I do want!" he said. "I want him to try
it. You realize, don't you, that all this is pure assumption and theory?
We don't have a single fact, as it stands, that proves anything. We could
go and pick this fellow up, and he's one of three men, so we could grab
all three of them, and even if we found the .25 Webley & Scott and my .38
in his pockets, we couldn't charge him with anything. Fact is, right now
we can't even prove that Lane Fleming's death was anything but the
accident it's on the books as being. But let him take a shot at me...."
"And then you'll have another nice, clear case of self-defense." McKenna
frowned. "Goddammit, Jeff, you've had to defend yourself too many times,
already. This'll be--well, how many will it be?"
"Counting Germans?" Rand grinned.
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