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the conventional manner of Morgan’s Pentecostal background, but the rigid, memorized chants of her Catholic upbringing. The words rang in her ears, blotting out her elevated breathing. She had prodded her partner into this experiment, but it didn’t seem like such a great idea at this end of the range. She knew that, even at this distance, Morgan could light a match with one of his specially modified pin guns. Yet, now he had to rely on her perceptions alone to hit the target.
    In the past she had seen what a nine millimeter hollowpoint bullet did to human flesh and bone when fired in her defense. She had no desire to experience it first hand. But she had a clear reason for accepting the risk that evening. She knew that she and Morgan were the type of people who would go on putting themselves in harm’s way. Danger was a drug to them both, and they would always find a way to get that fix. Knowing the limits of their psychic link seemed an important way to improve their survival chances.
    Narrowing her mind to pinpoint focus, Felicity zeroed in on Roberts. He looked at her, gave a sigh she could just hear at that distance, and shouted “Pull!” The rough surface of the clay disc scratched the fingertips of her left hand as she flipped it into the air. It hung suspended for an instant, and then crashed to the floor.
    â€œYou’ve got to shoot for us to find out anything,” Felicity shouted. “Do it again, Mark.”
    â€œPull!”
    This time she tossed to the right, and Morgan’s arm swung with hers. He fired high, but in the right direction. She grinned. That was no chance act.
    â€œPull!”
    Again, she tossed to the right, and again Morgan swungwith the clay pigeon. His bullet passed below and to the right of the target. Even with a blindfold on, it seemed odd to her to see Morgan miss. That feeling prompted an interesting thought. She realized he was probably shooting about as well as she would.
    â€œPull!”
    This time she launched the tiny Frisbee-shaped target to her left. It exploded five feet from her hand. At the other end of the tunnel, she could see Morgan smile. She had turned her head to follow the target that time, and that seemed to do it.
    Felicity tossed the next six clay pigeons at random. For the last two, she did not wait for Roberts’ signal. One she tossed straight to her right. The last she flung directly up over her head. Morgan hit each one in flight, as if he could see them clearly. Maybe he could.
    With a joyous whoop, Felicity sprinted toward her partner. Still blindfolded, Morgan stepped around the firing point table and headed down range. When the two bodies collided, Morgan lifted Felicity and spun her around several times. Both were shouting and laughing, reveling in their success. It was the embrace of team members after a tough game won, or siblings when one of them graduates college. Or maybe, a special closeness beyond what family members can feel.

-5-
    For the first time, Morgan found himself in an atmosphere perhaps more elegant than the woman he was with. He wasn’t sure he could pronounce the entree Felicity had ordered for him, but she had assured him it would be on a level with the service.
    They were dining in El Padrino, the Beverly Wilshire Hotel’s grill room. It was after ten thirty at night, yet more than twenty people sat in the dining room. Morgan recognized half of them from movies, television, or the evening news. He wished he was not playing a part, so he could openly ogle the stars.
    â€œI can’t believe Bastidas would set himself up as a con artist here.”
    â€œIt’s the perfect setting,” Felicity said, biting into her fish mousse. “The Beverly Wilshire is the grand lady of hotels on the West Coast. And the rich are the easiest marks. They think they know it all, they have money to risk, and they always want more.”
    Morgan and Felicity wore appropriate attire for the formal