The Firing Line

Illustrated by Orban
Mark Kingman was surprised by the tapping on his windowpane. He thought that the window was unreachable from the outside—and then he realized that it was probably someone throwing bits of dirt or small stones. But who would do that when the doorway was free for any bell-ringer?
He shrugged, and went to the window to look out—and become cross-eyed as his eyes tried to cope with a single circle not more than ten inches distant. He could see the circle—and the bands on the inside spiraling into the depths of the barrel, and a cold shiver ran up his spine from there to here. Behind the heavy automatic, a dark-complected man with a hawklike face grinned mirthlessly.
Kingman stepped back and the stranger swung in and sat upon the windowsill.
Well? asked the lawyer.
Is it well? asked the stranger. You know me?
No. Never saw you before in my life? Is this a burglary?
Nope. If it were, I'd have drilled you first so you couldn't describe me.
Kingman shuddered. The stranger looked as though he meant it.
In case you require an introduction, said the hard-faced man, I'm Allison Murdoch.
Hellion?
None other.