“Hold out your hands,” said Oberon, reaching into his truck. The red Ford Ranger was parked askew by the shattered remains of the Institute's front doors. Its motor idled; Nimson was inside.
Jan held out her hands. Oberon laid a rifle in them.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“That—” He stared at her from the shadow of his hat's brim, “May be all that stands between you and Napoleon if he returns. Have you ever used one?”
She shook her head, sobering.
“To fire, switch the safety lever off. Then push up and forward on the charging handle, and back. It has an internal magazine of eight rounds—eight, not 18—so don't make like Rambo and fire at everything.”
He climbed into his truck and slammed the door.
Jan stepped up to his open window. “Sure you don’t just want to call an ambulance?”
Obero
