Splinter Cell. Don Pendleton

Executioner dug deeper into the bag and came out with another set of ballistic nylon straps.

      “Ah,” Paxton said, nodding. “DeSantis rigs?”

      The Executioner nodded again. “You’ve used this setup before?”

      “Once,” Paxton came back. “You mount the 50-rounder on the gun. The 100-round drum balances it out on your other side. Both are secured to the straps with Velcro but the gun itself hangs on your strong side instead of in a cross-draw position. You can fire with it still on the strap.”

      “You’ve got the picture,” said the Executioner. “And these rigs will fit right over the other shoulder holsters if we need them to. The only problem is we’ll need longer and heavier coats to conceal them. So for now, we’ll repack them and stick them under the bed.”

      Paxton nodded his understanding. “Okay,” he said. “What’s on the paper that bureaucratic burnout Young gave you?” he asked.

      Bolan reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled scrap of paper. “The name of a snitch,” he said. “And how to contact him.”

      “He can lead us to my brother?” Paxton said, his voice suddenly tight.

      “Maybe,” Bolan said. “Although I’ve never found things to work out quite that easily.”

      “But he can get us started?”

      “He can get us started,” Bolan agreed.