“Shit,” I mutter as I see that the barrel of a rifle points directly at my crotch. I get a tissue from the main bathroom before I touch it, not wanting to get my fingerprints on it. Upon closer inspection, I recognize the weapon as an A-545, a rifle used by Russian Spetsnaz units. I take a picture of the serial number to send to Rockwell later. Maybe they can find out a bit more about the way it took until it ended up in Mr. Barrons’ closet.
