"M1911A1."

"Rock Island?"

"Springfield Armory."

"You ever have the problem with the slide hanging up short of full battery?"

"Uh, only the first couple hundred rounds, now that I recall. Fine ever since."

"Go join your SF mates."

"How about you, then."

"Smith and Wesson Model 37."

"Ahh. A wheeler. And a lightweight. Aluminum frame and cylinder?"

"This one just the frame is alloy."

"Wish you'd brought more gun today than a 2" snubbie?"

"This'll suit me for the moment."

"Rather have a more powerful cartridge than .38 Special?"

".38 Special is a more powerful cartridge."

"Looks like you've got your act together. Hang with the others."

There were only two suspects left, and one of them wanted everyone in the room dead.

"You're up," Millis said to the slightly shorter of the two remaining suspects.

"Yes."

"Yes, what? What are you packing?"

"Ee...to...," he replied, stumbling a bit over the words, and trying to angle his pistol so he could read the side logo.

"You're sweeping the rest of the team with your muzzle, friend. What kind of gun do you have, do you know or not?"

Another slight hesitation, then in exasperation he blurts out, "Eet's a Gurakku." He instantly knew it was probably the worst thing he could say, and began to draw down on Millis. His plan was to wing him in the lower hip and take out his left leg support, then use his falling body as a human shield as he engaged the remaining targets.

But he never got the chance, as the room filled with a light haze and the sound of 9mm in rapid fire, punctuated by the "blam, blam" of a .45. All rounds were to center mass, except for a final shot an inch above the eye-slit in the shadow warrior's hood, put there by Millis himself, saying, "Ryū-ryū to you, too, Pal."

Now the group stood before the prone and lifeless figure. Millis rolled his head upwards as he pulled off the dark hood wrap to reveal distinctly Asian facial features. There was their ninja. "Why didn't you just have everyone pull off their hoods to begin with?" someone asked. "Well, where's the fun in that?" Millis quipped back.

"Shouldn't we have kept him alive for questioning?"

"Waste of time," Millis replied, "We could have worked him for hours, and he wouldn't have said a single thing. I know these people."

Millis carefully folded the blood-stained hood pieces and placed them over the face of the would-be assassin. He examined the Beretta M951 'Brigadier' probably grabbed at random from the ship's own armory. "Glocks won't even be around for twenty years," he said drolly.