by Adam Bender
The computer chimed with a new message.
Kittees4evaOMG:
@TheNewWest The Wanderer and Kid Hunter just saved my dad!
She read the message over a few times, trying to make sense it. Based on the user handle, it was either a little girl or some kind of amateur pornographer. Deciding it was more likely to be the former, she replied.
TheNewWest:
@Kittees4evaOMG Hi, there. Free to chat about it?
Kittees4evaOMG:
@TheNewWest Yea! Wat u want 2 kno?
Rosa opened a secure private chat and began to interview the girl. It didn’t take long to realize that it was going to be one hell of a story for The New West. This was more than just another Wanderer sighting. He had showed up in Freetown and saved the life of a man involved in a 3-D gun printing business. This time, the Wanderer had teamed up with another vigilante, a new sensation apparently called “Kid Hunter,” and together they’d stopped the execution, killing three members of the Red Stripe Gang. Perhaps most shocking of all, the Wanderer blamed the attempted hanging on the CEO of Breck Ammunition.
Her mind wandered back to the junket, and she remembered she still had to file a revised story to Our Times. She pulled up the document again, cut the remaining bits of controversy and sent it off to Rebecca. Whatever. She was over all that.
There was still something bothering her about the gun show. She remembered seeing a short, balding man get on the helicopter with Gerard Breck and his PR flack, but when they returned from the hunt, he wasn’t there. She remembered now that she’d seen him during her research of the gun company. She checked back over her notes and found the picture again. She was almost sure he was Tom O’Brien, the gun designer who’d developed several of the weapons the company had released over the years. She’d planned to follow up on this later, but with the new information from Kitty …
Rosa searched Tom O’Brien gun inventor in the Our Times contact database. In seconds, she had O’Brien’s home phone number. It rang a few times until a harried woman answered, “Tom? Is that you?”
“Uh, no, sorry … I’m actually looking for him. This is Rosa Veras. I’m a journalist.” She didn’t say from where.
The woman was O’Brien’s wife, and she told Rosa that she hadn’t seen her husband since he had left that morning to see Gerard Breck at his office. The two men flew together from Vegas to Liberty for the gun show. Tom sent her a selfie in the helicopter, but she hadn’t heard from him since.
“I think I saw him get onto the helicopter,” confessed Rosa, “but I didn’t see him get off. I don’t know what happened.”
The line went silent.
“Mrs. O’Brien? Could you tell me why Tom went to see Mr. Breck this morning?” Rosa asked.
There was a sigh. “It was the contract for the new gun,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “Tom hadn’t signed it yet. That bastard Breck was trying to screw him out of the royalties. Tom said he was going to talk to him and make everything right.”
Rosa thanked Mrs. O’Brien and said she would call back if she learned anything more. Opening a fresh document on her computer, the journalist’s fingers whirred into motion.
When she finally came up for air, she exclaimed a string of profanities. The story was pretty damning. She should probably ask Breck Ammunition for comment.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone and dialed the head of communications for Breck Ammo.
After two rings, a woman with an accent answered, “Breck Ammunition. This is Elza.”
“Hi, Elza. This is Rosa from the press junket.”
She bit her lip. Probably shouldn’t have called it a junket. Luckily, the PR flack didn’t seem to take offense.
“Oh, yes, Rosa! Have you put up your piece yet? We are looking forward to reading it.”
It took Rosa a few seconds to remember which story she was talking about. “Oh, I just filed that. It should be up soon. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?”
“I’m actually working on another story.” She pinched herself for the unsure way she spoke. Sound more confident! You’re supposed to be a journalist!
Elza asked, “You’re looking for comment?”
She told the PR flack the whole thing. Well, most of it. Mainly the part about Breck hiring the Red Stripe Gang to hang the guy with the 3-D printing operation.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. When Elza finally spoke, her voice was cold and deadly. “This is a joke, right?”
Rosa felt like a mouse caught in a trap. “I … um … unfortunately it’s not. I’m not saying I think your boss did that … I’m just saying what someone else said …”
All of the flack’s former friendliness had vanished from her voice. “You mean what a nameless vigilante suggested, based on the hearsay of a ten-year-old girl. You are truly planning to print this?”
Rosa had to admit the evidence sounded pretty thin when Elza put it like that. “Well, that’s why I’m asking you for comment, in order —”
“— to legitimize your story. Well, I’m sorry, Ms. Veras. We will not comment on sensationalist speculation! Off the record, I will tell you that your story is completely outrageous, and you would be very foolish indeed to publish it.”
Rosa wondered if that was a threat. She decided not to clarify.
Elza continued. “You know, I believe that I will call your editor to learn what she thinks about this.”
Rosa cursed inwardly. She was already on thin ice with Rebecca. Something like this could mean her job. She knew that was a possibility from the minute she came up with The New West, but she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. She’d barely gotten going. She needed more time.
“You don’t have to do that …” Rosa begged meekly. “Look, Elza, I’m sorry. I won’t publish it in Our Times.”
Another long pause. “Do you promise? I want to have your word, Rosa.”
“You have it. I promise that I will not publish this in Our Times. But if you don’t mind, I do have one other question. It’s unrelated.”
“What?”
“Was Tom O’Brien on your helicopter? I thought I saw him.”
After a pause, Elza replied, “Yes, he was.”
“Oh, because I didn’t see him afterward.” She added quickly, “I would have liked an interview.”
“I am sorry we could not arrange that. Unfortunately, Mr. O’Brien … had to jump off early.”
BRECK CONNECTED TO
RED STRIPE GANG
By New West Reporter
After Breck Ammunition unveiled its latest killing machine, the vigilante known as the Wanderer uncovered violent practices by CEO Gerard Breck to protect his company’s monopoly.
The New West has learned that the Wanderer, who two weeks ago shot up a Catholic church in Liberty while seeking justice for an attempted murder, surfaced again in Freetown on the Fourth of July. This time, he stopped three members of the lawless Red Stripe Gang attempting to hang the father of a young girl.
The father, Tony Potobo, sold in the trade of 3-D printed guns, an emerging business that has placed increasing pressure on the revenue of America’s dominant gun manufacturer, Breck Ammunition.
Evidence suggests that the Red Stripe Gang acted in the interests of Gerard Breck, who sought to put an end to Potobo’s business. The hanging was to be a bold warning for anyone else who might try to compete with “Big Ammo.”
Luckily for Potobo, the Wanderer was watching. Joined this time by an accomplice known as Kid Hunter, the Wanderer made quick work of the gangsters and reunited father with daughter.
“He was really nice,” Potobo’s girl, Kitty, said of the Wanderer. “Like, really serious, but also really nice. Kid Hunter was okay, too.”
Kitty said she heard the Wanderer conclude that Gerard Breck and his company Breck Ammunition were behind the attempted hanging. We contacted Breck Ammunition for comment, but their spokesperson declined.
The Potobos fled their home in
Freetown soon after the attack. The current locations of the Wanderer or Kid Hunter are unknown.
The events capped an explosive Independence Day celebration that began with Breck unveiling a rapid-fire hunting rifle — really a sniper rifle — at the company’s annual gun show. Visiting journalists were treated by the company to helicopter rides during which they were asked to try out the super long–range guns on herds of mule deer.
The New West spotted the gun’s inventor, Tom O’Brien, getting on Gerard Breck’s helicopter for the shoot. Strangely, he has not been seen since.
O’Brien’s wife said she has not seen or heard from her husband since he left their house that morning. She said he had gone to the Vegas headquarters of Breck Ammunition with an intention to change some of the terms in the contract for the sale of the Breck 100X.
The Breck Ammunition spokeswoman confirmed that O’Brien had been on the helicopter with herself and Breck during the time of the event. Asked to explain what happened to him, the Breck spokeswoman explained, “Mr. O’Brien had to jump off early.”
CHAPTER TEN
This … Blog …
From atop his black leather throne, the CEO of Breck Ammunition gazed listlessly at two minions gesticulating wildly before him. They seemed to be trying to make a point, but so far, Gerard’s main takeaway was that their gray suits were begging for a good tailor.
“What we need is a new paradigm for gun delivery,” said one businessman.
“Agile gun delivery,” finished the other, whose name Gerard also couldn’t remember. “We come out with new models every couple of years, but with these print-at-home guns catching on, that’s not going to be fast enough. We need more updates and a faster release cycle.”
Gerard thought of the gun inventor falling from the chopper. “Do we …” he said, stroking his mustache, “. . . have the R&D for that?”
“Oh, no need for extensive R&D,” answered the first businessman, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “The improvements won’t be significant. By using clever naming and switching up the colors and build materials, I think we can keep the same functionality and still convince people we’re releasing new guns. We’ll even get collectors who want to have them all! Imagine, the Breck 17 S-series, featuring crocodile leather hand grips! Or gunmetal steel for the Breck 17 Classic! We’ll add camouflage colors and call it the Breck 17 Stealth!”
The other marketer clapped his hands. “People will think we are advancing the shit out of guns!”
“Speeding up the cadence!” added the first.
“No more waterfall!”
“Agile!”
For the heck of it, Gerard did a quick spin in his chair. As he passed one hundred and eighty degrees, he caught a glimpse of his father’s eyes looking down at him. He hated that mural, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.
“Sir?” asked one of the employees upon the CEO’s completion of the turn.
Gerard yawned. “Wait … is this … is this the same … as that … that, uh, good data thing?”
“Big data!” exclaimed one of the suits. “Yes … and no! Going agile will integrate with big data for sure, but this is something else! Big data will let us predict who wants to buy a gun —”
“— before they even know they want it!” finished the second businessman.
The gun marketers high-fived. As they continued onto the next page of their presentation, Gerard’s mind wandered back to his stepfather. Gerard had joined the Breck family at the age of nine when his divorced mother, Iris, married Al. Most boys that age resented the second husbands of their mothers, but Gerard was pleased to be joining the Brecks. His real father had left when he was just a baby, and he and his mom had been scraping along ever since. She never let him know what exactly she was doing to earn money, and Gerard knew enough not to ask.
When Al Breck met and fell in love with Iris, it was as if a beacon of light had shone down from Heaven. She wouldn’t have to work anymore. He and his mother would have a future. And their savior was America’s greatest gun inventor. Until, in one terrible instant, their fortunes changed.
He was sixteen and learning to drive on a permit. His mother was in the passenger seat of the Chrysler, telling him how well Errol was doing in his first year of business school. Gerard had lost it.
“You’re supposed to be my mother!” he’d screamed while flooring the gas pedal. All he wanted was to scare her, to make a point. He didn’t see the red light and was shooting right through it when something big slammed into the right side of the car. His last memory was a feeling of astonishment as the traffic revolved fast around him.
Gerard had awoken in the hospital with cuts and a broken arm. He’d asked for his mother but was told she never made it out of the car. An eighteen-wheeler had rammed into the Chrysler’s rear wheel and passenger door, killing Iris Breck on impact and sending the sedan into a violent spin.
His stepfather had refused to visit Gerard in the hospital. It was only for the love of Iris that he’d put up with her troublesome son. Errol sent an e-card but never bothered coming home from college. When the hospital eventually released him, Gerard had no allies in the Breck household. Al called him a fuckup and sent him away to an out-of-state boarding school to finish his primary education.
That had hurt, but he’d ultimately decided that this cold knock of reality was good for him. He had spent his childhood letting Mom fight his battles. Without her, he would have to fight for himself. He would have to earn his stepfather’s love on his own. It was either that or fall back to the hard existence from which he and his mother had risen.
And so Gerard had done as he was told and went to boarding school for two years. From a tiny shared dorm, he’d plotted his glorious return to Vegas. He would show Al Breck not only that he wasn’t a fuckup, but that he was a true son to be proud of. He buckled down at school and stayed out of trouble. Gerard’s grades improved, and by graduation, he was at the top of his class. Al didn’t show up for the ceremony, but afterward rewarded him with a good job at Breck Ammunition back in Vegas. Gerard happily accepted, eager to show his stepfather that he was the right man to lead the company into the future.
“I’ll never forgive you,” the old man had told him over the phone, “but I promised your mother that there would always be a place for you here.”
Gerard took it as a challenge. He was only eighteen and had never received any business education, but he went to work impassioned, learning the job on the fly. After several promotions and more than fifteen years of earnest work, he began to win back Al Breck’s respect. His stepfather never told him this directly, but Gerard could tell from the way he looked at him.
Then the old bastard had to go and die. Our Times reported that it was lung cancer, an inevitable result of nearly sixty years of chain-smoking. It was true that he was sick, but Al Breck didn’t wait for the cancer to kill him. In his hospital bed, the founder of America’s gun company took his own life using his original prototype for the Breck 17.
Gerard had been devastated, but Elza told him it was an opportunity. There was a vacuum at the top of Breck Ammunition. Errol might be in line to become CEO, but he seemed disinterested in the responsibility. Gerard could take over the company and build his own legacy. He could still make his stepfather proud.
“So what do you think, Mr. Breck?”
Gerard glanced at the clock and saw that it was 7:59 p.m. “I think it’s getting late. Leave me.”
The enthusiasm faded from the marketers’ faces, but they did as they were told.
Gerard pulled up his tablet as the clock struck eight. Time to read the daily report. It listed all the day’s mentions of Gerard and Breck Ammunition. The references were ranked by popularity, which was based on the number of readers who had seen the article, how much time they spent on the article, and how many times the article had been shared. Gerard liked to read each headline with a sip of bourbon on ice.
Today’s top headline, from a site he didn�
�t recognize called The New West, proclaimed: Breck Connected to the Red Stripe Gang.
Whiskey spluttered forcefully from Gerard’s lips. Some caught on the bottom of his mustache; the rest spattered across his tablet. Cursing, he grabbed a cloth and wiped the brown liquid from the screen. When the object was sufficiently smooth again, he tapped on the headline to read the story. An anonymous byline, he noted.
Laying the device carefully back down on the table, Breck pressed a button on his desk and seethed, “Elza, would you please come in here?”
Gerard thought about all the ways he might kill Elza. Throttle her neck maybe. Whack her skull with the tablet — no, he needed the tablet. He had several guns in the desk, but which was the right one? The Breck 17, or perhaps that was too ordinary? No, she deserved a better death than that.
Elza looked paler than usual when she walked into the room. “Elza,” Gerard growled, “did you receive a call from a journalist earlier?”
“Rosa Veras,” she said, trembling. “But she promised me that she would not print anything in Our Times.”
He shook his head. “She didn’t print it in Our Times. She printed it in something called The New West.”
Elza looked pathetically down at the floor. “I know. I saw. And I am so sorry. She told me what she wanted to write, and I did my very best to discourage her.”
Breck’s eyebrows relaxed. There was something pretty about Elza when she struggled to keep afloat. It was how she had looked when he first met her years ago at the casino. Back then she was dealing cards — blackjack — at one of the high roller tables. She had lured him to her table with those Gypsy eyes. She was good at dealing cards, but he could tell she wanted so much more. He recognized this suffering as the same of his own. Desire for the American Dream was something they shared. And so he had offered her a job with better hours and a lot better pay.
