Gun Work

by David J. Schow

  Frankly, Barney felt as if they had just been waiting around all their lives for the right excuse. The crime of non-action was on par with giving a talented artist plenty of paint, brushes, canvas, inspiration, and time... and then not allowing him to paint.

  There was a wealth of wiggle time if anybody wanted to bail. Three more weeks, minimum, of working the guns on the range and warming up the newer guns through their break-in periods, usually measured in hundreds of rounds... or, in Barney’s case, two to three thousand rounds per gun before he began to develop the correct muscle memory for accurate handling in combat. Each weapon had its own personality and eccentricities, and familiarization was essential. Each weapon had its brothers and sisters, multiples of Karlov’s painstaking labor, and they all had to be broken in.

  A lot of bang-bang, enough to make you wash the gunpowder out of your hair every night.

  Training specs called for a 70/30 ratio of dry fire to live fire, with a shooting timer. Armand actually videotaped Barney’s range drills; tape doesn’t lie.

  Before it settled into enough of a routine to make them lazy, Barney announced that he was taking a little trip, by himself.

  Sirius was a tiny bit disappointed, since he had worked out labyrinthine plans for interstate firearms transport; there were the complications of multiple IDs for all them at various altitudes of impermeability, ticketing for trains and planes, proper camouflage of any potential paper (or Internet) trail, lodgings, rally points, emergency fallback rendez, and clean work cars with the right paper. All the coordination of logistics made Sirius feel like a career criminal, or a roadie for a heavy metal band.

  “All this prep makes me feel like a career criminal,” Sirius said. “Or a roadie for a heavy metal band.”

  “Hey, at least you don’t have to score big flour sacks of blow,” said Barney. “Or platoons of hookers.”

  “Or waste time cherry-picking the right color M&Ms,” said Armand.

  “I’ve got some ironclad resources here,” returned Sirius. “I just don’t wanna waste ‘em.”

  “You’re not,” said Barney. “Just tell me who your guy is in New Jersey.” He was referring to a strip yard Sirius had mentioned where he could obtain a nondescript vehicle with alternate plates, not a junker.

  Barney’s first port of call was New York City, a place where possession of a firearm can get you automatic jail time.

  The hardest part about finding Felix Rainer in New York, for Barney, was choosing the right business suit. About half-strength Armani was what he required in order to present the correct nouveau-riche profile. The illusion only needed to fool everyone for less than a running minute of time.

  The data pull on Felix Rainer was notably public. In 1995 — after the junk bond boom of the 1980s and the brief last-round flurry of dotcoms in the early 1990s — he split from a liquid but undistinguished brokerage firm to co-found The Bleecker Street Group with two other partners. They kept the company lean as they began buying corporate properties and learned the pleasures of private equity, then of running a hedge fund specializing in distressed debt. Through calculated strikes they prospered, branching out into brand-extensions and country-specific restructuring funds... which to Barney whispered “Mexico.”

  On closer examination it was easy to see that Bleecker Street’s maverick risk structure was pretty kissin’ close to gambling, buying chemical companies out of favor in 2004 and taking them public in foreign countries when the old-economy names got hot again. Your best opportunities to sock away millions came when legitimate banks were willing to provide lender leverage into the billions. They acquired and unloaded office buildings faster than playing lightning Monopoly, and were always raising capital for their latest buyout fund.

  Rainer was low-profile, hewing to the maxim laid down by Wall Street superstar Aldous Blackmoor: “Never be the poster boy. When the era changes, the poster boy gets ripped off the wall.”

  Rainer and his crew were Harvard hustlers, always on the sniff for Justice Department investigations into what were called “club buyouts.” When quoted, they worried about interest rates; in private they amassed astonishing debt in order to bulk-purchase; Rainer’s phrase for it was “economies of scale,” which to Barney translated as that old TV commercial in which the screaming carpet salesman says, “How do we do it? VOLUME!”

  It took less than a day for Barney to sketch Felix Rainer’s movement template. The guy began a rigorous workday at 7:30 AM sharp and went everywhere by chauffeured limousine. He owned the entire top floor of the ovoid Capitol Towers Building on Columbus Circle. Private staff and security measures had him pretty boxed, but Barney knew there was no such thing as genuine security this side of the grave.

  Finding a photograph had been difficult but not impossible. Rainer was a fiftyish man with hair plugs and one of those skin-cancer sunlamp tans that looked radioactive.

  Barney decided to take the guy in his limo, after business hours.

  Manhattan was busy losing the last dregs of summer — warm days, cool nights. At a mid-town commercial shipping outlet Barney picked up a clad plastic case festooned with security tape and warning stickers: HIGH-SPEED PHOTOGRAPHIC FILM — EXTREMELY SENSITIVE. The interior surfaces were sheeted in lead foil and the dense, high-impact foam padding ferried Barney’s work kit: a piece, several mags, cleaning kit, extra cash and alternate ID, and a coded emergency cellphone.

  The gun was a solid, Nitron-finished P229 Elite in .357 SIG. Karlov liked SIGs and so did Barney. Some guys were Glock men; others swore by the myth-laden Colt, but the names were always spoken with a gravity religious people reserved for saints: Remington, Ruger, Browning, Beretta, Kimber, a whole pantheon of new gods for modern times.

  SIG Sauer was proof that Germany had successfully invaded America. The “SIG” was an acronym for Swiss Industrial Company (Schweizerische Industrie-Gesellschaft); the “Sauer” came from the incorporation of German gunmakers J.P. Sauer & Sohn, GmbH, of Eckernförde in the early 1970s. Nineteen eighty-five marked the rebirth of the entire assembly of companies as SIGARMS, which rapidly became a favorite of military and law enforcement during a time when cops were discovering how often they were outgunned in the street. Their handguns were devastatingly well-built and had stopping power to burn. They were also hefty — a real handful — but their actions crisp and their delivery, spot-on. They were no longer made overseas, but in New Hampshire. Barney had never been disappointed by a SIG.

  This one featured a short reset trigger that eliminated “trigger slap” and made the pulls short and fast in either single or double action. Karlov had substituted Hogue wraparound grips and beefed the frame by half a pound. There was also a Safariland speed scabbard for concealed carry.

  The mags contained Armand’s latest concoction, his version of a 150-grain EPR, or Extreme Penetration Round, that could penetrate 20-gauge steel or most body armor.

  Barney had drilled with both this gun and this ammo for a month. It could devastate a kill zone but had the kick of a .22.

  His gear installed in a newly-bought attaché case, Barney caught lunch at a Greek diner, barely tasting the food but registering the mild amp of the strong coffee. The nylon steady-straps Karlov had conceived were already around his neck, the thumb loops tucked into his jacket sleeves.

  He had thought briefly of wearing gloves with built-in index fingers of foam, slightly curled for a naturalistic look, until he had wandered about in the walking world for awhile and realized no one really took notice of his hands. Some time later, he might have to hide his special attributes, conceal his difference, but he did not feel that way right now. These were his hands; the world would just have to cope. His hands were him — crippled, then altered, then reborn, but still functioning. Like a clip, his hands had so many shots in them before they were exhausted.

  He spent an extra day to reliably clock Felix Rainer’s circuit, annotating in-times and out-times. The money-man, per an aggressive transactional profile, did not have time for lu
nches taken off-site. Evening functions used up 45 minutes in transit from the office to Capitol Towers, allowing for a costume change and spruce-up. Different weapons, evening-dress armament for a different brand of warfare. His chariot was a Corsair stretch that looked to Barney to be armored similarly to the limo he had driven in Mexico. He had two alternating drivers, both graduates of the school of physical threat — skintight suits over imposing bodies, packing hip holsters. The wait zone was a gated garage at Capitol, probably leading to a private elevator. Too many cameras there; too much exposure.

  Okay, so it was a quitting-time date, then.

  Barney had billeted himself in a mid-range hotel in the upper 50s full of foreign tourists or businessmen. Easy to blend, there. Since his credit card was imaginary, that bill did not matter. He could have watched all the cable porn he wanted. Content did not interest him but he did keep the TV on, volume dialed almost to zero, for the duration of his stay. It was another presence in the room and a harmless one, something he had keenly missed in Mexico, where another presence usually signaled yet another beating.

  During off hours, Rainer’s limo enjoyed a special curbside yellow zone on West 58th Street near Eighth Avenue, probably with the sanction of bribed cops. While on duty it circulated around the business district; Rainer’s office was spitting distance from the World Trade Center site. If it parked, it had itself a hide and Barney never spotted it. The driver never seemed to take a meal or bathroom break, and he only left the vehicle to watchdog Rainer in person. The afternoon of the second day was spent tracking the limo’s ups and downs in the city, so Barney had found the car connection provided by Sirius to be useful, although he hated driving in Manhattan traffic as much as any sane person would.

  Barney never stopped to ask himself if he was crazy. Any more than Rainer and lunch, he didn’t have the time.

  This was going to have to go fast.

  Within fifteen seconds of the limousine curbing in front of the skyscraper housing the Bleecker Street Group, at precisely 7:35 in the evening, Barney strolled up to the driver’s side door with his free hand grasping a shield wallet designating him as a New York City detective. He made the familiar hand-rolling motion and the driver, an enormous bodybuilder in livery, buzzed the window down and regarded him impatiently.

  Barney stuck the SIG right into his ear canal. The chauffeur’s movements were restricted by the door, his seat belt, and the general fact that he tended to fill the entire driver’s space.

  “Scoot over,” said Barney.

  “Awww... shit,” said the driver, resigned.

  Barney took note of the obvious bulge of gun saddle on the man’s right hip. He was a southpaw. Once they were safe and cozy behind tinted windows, Barney said, “Gun. Take it out, right hand, two fingers on the butt. Go on, belt yourself in. Good. Now sit on your hands, palms down. Good.”

  The driver rolled his eyes, torqued at being blind-sided, knowing this would reflect badly on his rating. “What the fuck you want, man?”

  “I want you to keep doing what I tell you.”

  The driver’s gun was a simple Browning Hi-Power in nine millimeter, no jazz. Barney quickly found a backup piece in a drop door under the dashboard — a polymer-framed Cobra Patriot, also in nine. He hooked them through the open privacy divider into the cabin of the limo.

  The driver did not have an ankle gun. He was not packing cuffs, a stun gun or a telescoping baton. Too much gear for the fit of his suit. About all he carried besides a wallet was his personal cellphone, which was in a slot on the dash. Barney popped the battery and chip and tossed that, too.

  Barney quickly located the driver’s side “panic button” transmitter and disabled it. Then he neutralized the car phone.

  “Fuck, dude, you gonna cost me my job, you know that.”

  “No I’m not,” said Barney, scanning the perimeter. “Question One: Is he armed?”

  The driver knew the advantages of all-business when facing down a gun. “No sir. He never carries a weapon. He voted for that asshole Schumer—”

  “Pay attention,” said Barney, keeping him on track. “Question Two: How long?”

  “Five minutes tops, from when he beeps me, sir.”

  “Stop calling me sir. That leaves us about a minute and a half. What’s your name?”

  The guy looked around as though he’d just taken a bite of pizza and lost a pepperoni in his clothes. “Uh, Malcolm, sir... I mean, Malcolm.”

  “Okay, Malcolm. The man who pays your salary is a piece of shit, a Wall Street player who damned near got me perished. Play this wrong and you perish, my friend. You perish first. The slugs in this gun will go through anything you can get behind, and if you fuck me, you won’t be able to take cover fast enough, because I’m pissed off, and you don’t want me pissed off at you instead of your boss. You copy?”

  Malcolm nodded, a single up-down head bob. “I have to get out of the car to—”

  “No you don’t,” said Barney. “Let him be irritated. He’s always in a hurry, am I right?”

  “Generally.” A massive sigh escaped the big man. “Shit... he gets in half the time by himself, anyway, unless there’s, y’know, somebody with him.”

  “Somebody with him today?”

  “No, sir. Dinner at Le Cercle Rouge at eight-thirty. He’s meeting people there.”

  “Well, he’s going to be a tot late, I think.”

  Felix Rainer, positive match on the photo, exited the revolving doors across a tiled promenade and beelined for the limousine.

  “Okay, Malcolm, it’s shit-or-git time. You run and your boss is dead for sure, and so are you — I’ll make sure you’re first. You drive and do as you’re told and we all walk away. You try anything fancy — erratic driving, speeding, anything out of the ordinary trip back up to Capitol Towers — and I’ll put two in your back and one in your brain pan, right through the divider. You are to keep both hands on the wheel. Pretend they’re glued there. You move them off the wheel, and you catch three. You wink funny at the next car at a stoplight, and you catch three. You got all that?”

  Malcolm nodded.

  Before Malcolm could slip his shoulder harness, Barney was out of the driver’s side door and making a quick scuttle for the back of the limo — inelegant, but necessary since Barney knew on approach the rear doors would be locked until needed. Felix Rainer could not see a thing over the roof of the car. Barney knew Malcolm’s impulse would be to bolt, to dive out the passenger side, to telegraph some kind of warning, and it would take him a couple of seconds to figure it out and act in favor of his continued survival. Before Malcolm could fully resume the pilot position, Barney was slotted into the upper starboard corner of the cabin, where he could keep an eye on both driver and passenger. He swept the scattered cellphone parts and Malcolm’s guns into a bar cabinet just as Rainer opened his own door and climbed inside, oblivious, impervious to any drama other than his own.

  “Malcolm, goddammit, are you asleep?”

  Rainer had the door closed before he fully registered another person in the cabin with him. Businessman sort, with a slightly weathered (or battered) face, fair suit, attaché case.

  “Just sit. Don’t talk. Malcolm: drive.”

  It would take a few moments for Rainer to process his own outrage, and Barney had to tell him to shut up three more times.

  A few more moments, for Rainer to think about diving out of a moving vehicle. No good. Several more moments, to fret. To look out the window at anything except the gunman sitting before him.

  Finally: “I presume I’m being kidnapped.”

  That was a laff riot. “I need one thing from you, Mister Rainer. I need the location of Carl Ledbetter. Can you provide that?” The SIG was trained unwaveringly on Rainer’s solar plexus, since he probably didn’t have a heart.

  Rainer looked left, right, to the heavens. No help or guidance seemed imminent. Up close his face was even redder than the photograph, now going deeper crimson with barely suppressed fury. He ble
w out a breath like a snort. “Carl? That loser? Why, did he ass-rape you, too?” He seemed to rearrange his body to reassert his dominance, getting huffy. “And, Malcolm? You’re fired.”

  To lend this man even a sense of his own superiority when confronted with lesser beings was a mistake, so Barney put a .357 round into the seat near Rainer’s shoulder. The blast boxed their ears with concussion in the airtight seal of the limo cabin. Barney was used to the noise; most people were not. Malcolm flinched but kept his cool. Sit, stay. His hands jumped off the wheel but quickly reseated themselves. Rainer had contracted into a fetal ball, knees in his face, almost ready to evacuate his bladder all over his nice leather seats. Nobody outside the vehicle noticed the flash-pop of muzzle blast. Rich folks, probably, taking snapshots.

  “Malcolm says you have a dinner date. Now you can be late as in tardy, or late as in deceased. Pick one. I don’t want to kill you right now, but I will. Carl Ledbetter. Where?”

  “You fucking asshole!” Rainer fumed. “Who are you?”

  Barney leaned forward with the gun as if to fire again, feeling the neck strap cinch tight to make his aim rock steady. Rainer tried to astral-project and failed. “All right, all right, Jesus!” He was meekly reaching into his coat pocket.

  “That hand comes out with anything on the end of it but a manicure, you’re done,” said Barney.

  “Phone,” said Rainer. “You can talk to him yourself. I don’t want anything to do with whatever it is.”