Brimstone Hustle (Brimstone Cycle Book 1)
Page 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MORE STORIES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
GRATITUDE, AND MORE STORIES (AGAIN)
Brimstone Hustle
Copyright 2017, Robert McKinney
All rights reserved. Published by McKinney Can’t Press
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be addressed via email to mckinneycantwrite@gmail.com
DEDICATION
For C. We’ll get there, brother.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To mom, who taught me to think big, small, and everywhere in between on the path to victory. To dad, who thought that the Iliad was great reading material for nine year old boys. To Kristen, who endured the earliest drafts so many years ago. To Leslie, who served as a reader and sounding board. To Laura, who gave a voice to Robin. Most of all, to my wife, who not only kept me standing but also helped make this story the best it could be.
MORE STORIES
If you like what you see in the pages that follow, then visit our growing community at https://www.patreon.com/mckinneycantwrite. Once there, you’ll find audio-dramas, short stories and other treats that are perfectly sized to go along with a cup of caffeine.
CHAPTER ONE
I walk into an alley, flick the wheel of my knockoff Zippo lighter, and drop down through a sky choked with brimstone and flame. The heat stings my skin, but my passage is short enough for me to land on concrete before my jeans or spaghetti strap tank start to smoulder. A puff of foul smelling smoke from the trip follows me after I land. I wave my hand to dissipate the cloud, and exhale as I take in the room I’ve just entered.
It’s an ugly place, bare concrete and unpainted walls, but that’s to be expected when dealing with arms factories in this part of the world. A long line of crates are stacked against one of the walls, and a conveyor belt, now dormant, waits to carry more of the same.
With my footsteps quiet and lighter clutched tight, I make my way over to the nearest of the crates. The lock’s a cakewalk to disable, and I lift the lid open to see the weapons, automatics, lined up neatly inside.
The China North Industries Corporation, NORINCO, makes a pretty good rifle, which is why I tend to rob them so often. Keeping track of their guard schedules takes a little bit of doing, but has been worth the hassle and then some ever since my secretary had tracked down a reliable stream of clientele.
Each of the iron and wood rifles inside of the crate is familiar enough to anyone who’s seen an action movie or watched the news since 1947. Rugged and simple, knockoff Kalashnikov rifles are so common they’re almost never worth the effort of moving these days. Or at least they would be, if already stamped with the traceable serial numbers that are added to all rifles before leaving the factory.
I reach down into the crate and pick up one of the rifles, brushing long strands of dirty-blonde hair from my face as I do so because I’d forgotten to bring a hair tie with me tonight. I flip the weapon on its side, squint, then smile when I see that it lacks serial numbers, symbols, and site markings of any kind. Without those markings, this weapon comes as close to untraceable as these things ever get. That’s worth its own weight in gold when shown to the right kind of buyer. Fortunately for my little sister, and her not-so-little student loans, eager buyers are no longer a thing that I’m short on.
It’s hard to pack a duffel bag without making a racket, but I’ve had practice. I’d brought one along with me because it rolls up small and handles easier than a crate, but as I start to unroll it and cram pristine AK-47 clones inside it, I wonder if I should bite the bullet next time and show up with a few padded boxes and sturdy hand cart. I’m panting by the time I get around to emptying my last crate of the night, which is probably why I don’t hear anything until a guard barges through the door and shines a light at my back.
“Freeze!” he says, in what I think is Mandarin. I’m not sure, because I know very little Chinese save for the phrases often used by angry men with guns. That may seem specific, but it’s a good thing to keep track of in my line of work, and is even easy to someone who failed high school Spanish.
I curse to myself, annoyed at the interruption because being annoyed is more pleasant than being terrified. Despite my job, I hate guns, especially when one of them is being aimed at me. I hate them so much, in fact, that I’d spent a chunk of what I’d expected to make with this haul on bribes to know who in this factory will be where and when. The nighttime patrol for this section wasn’t supposed to come through for another half hour. They may have added more personnel, meaning the guard behind me is new.
The new guy tells me to stop again, and it doesn’t take a linguist to pick out the anxiety in his voice. Not good, not good, very not good. I take a breath and try to stop worrying about the gun aimed at my back. I almost succeed, until I remember this funny thing I know about bullets. They still hurt, even if you’re not scared of them.
I exhale and decide that it’s probably best to listen to what the newly hired man with the newly issued gun is telling me to do. With my free hand, the one not still holding my lighter, I reach up and shrug out of the duffel bag strap digging into my shoulder. I lower the bag of weapons down slow and without sudden movements in the hopes of not damaging the weapons inside or getting shot in the back by a twitchy man with a gun.
Despite my efforts, there’s a clatter when the duffel bag meets the ground, and I have to wonder if the buyer will make me discount the whole lot if there’s cosmetic damage, or if I’ll be able to convince the him to take a price cut on an item by item basis. I’m hoping for the latter. Mary’s taking up film studies this upcoming semester, and I have to find her a nice camera in addition to textbooks.
The new guy doesn’t seem to be as worried about the merchandise as me, because he kicks my bag aside with a scraping noise. He stomps in towards me and plants a hand on my shoulder. I can feel the tremble in his fingers as he tightens his grip, preparing himself to pull hard and swing me around to face him.
I face him and then some, swinging my elbow as I turn while stepping enough to the side to avoid wherever his gun had been pointing. A ranger I’d met out in Bangkok once told me to never lay hands on someone you may have to shoot. All it does is let them know exactly where to swing.
My elbow catches him in the nose a moment before my other fist follows suit. The strikes are sloppy, even by my standards, but he still staggers back and drops his gun. He stands there gawking at me for a full heartbeat or more, maybe surprised at a woman putting up this much fight, before he starts bending down to pick up his weapon. By then, I’m already diving for my bag of stolen guns on the floor and raise up my lighter with my free hand.
He says something else to me, but I don’t think I’d have cared, even if I’d understood. The only thing
that I’m focused on now is the duffel bag in one hand and my lighter, held firm and ready, in the other.
I flick the lighter, birthing sparks, and drop again into flame, leaving no trace but smoke, and a bloody nosed guard in my wake.
CHAPTER TWO
As always, heat digs into my skin, but it ends when I land on top of a wide sand dune on the coast of the Philippines a half second later. Wisps of sulfurous smoke linger around me for a moment, but the breeze coming off the Visayan Sea is enough to carry it away. The lighter in my hand is warm to the touch and my duffel bag, loaded full, is tight in the other. The hard part’s done, so I place the lighter in a pocket large enough to be worthy of the name, and return the duffel bag strap to its place on my shoulder.
My phone comes out another pocket next. It’s an odd, bulky looking thing with the guts of an iPhone that I’d bought in a rough part of south-east London about two years prior. The Peckham dwelling hacker who built it for me said that it would hold up to anything short of NSA screening, assuming they didn’t look hard.
That’s vital in my business, even for people who can take shortcuts downstairs to move quickly like me. I do a Google search, call a cab, and start walking towards the seaside road where the cab will pick me up in five minutes.
I’m a devil dog, a real one, not a U.S. Marine. Devil dogs like me make deals with unsavory creatures for the chance to gain unsavory power. For me, it was dropping - a way to take shortcuts through hell and land anywhere on earth that I want. For other people, other things like visions or uncanny skill with a blade. Most of us don’t live long after making their deals because they get overconfident and do stupid things. I’ve been at this for a few years, and intend to keep living, which means never, under any circumstances, making a drop right after I’d landed someplace nearby. Instead, I just wait for my taxi, instead of landing closer to my scheduled meet in the Philippines
My driver arrives late in a strange, boxy taxi that looks like a WWII era jeep made love to a corgi. He calls it a “jeepney” when I ask, and spends the following two minutes extolling the religious virtues of tipping. I ignore him long enough to check out the clock on my phone, and see that I’ve gotten the time zones mixed again. I’m not late to my meeting, but I’m behind my own schedule for getting an early lay of the land. I tell the driver that there’s one hundred, American, in it for him if he can get me to the meeting in less than ten minutes. He smiles at the challenge, slams the accelerator, and starts hauling ass. My next eight minutes, plus or minus thirty seconds, is spent clinging to a broken seat belt and regretting life choices.
With a minute thirty to spare, the driver squeals to a stop in front of a ritzy beachfront hotel. It’s the kind of place that charges almost too much and refuses to sell drinks with umbrellas in the glasses. I pay the driver and hop out of the jeep-corgi hybrid, taking in the sights while adjusting the duffel bag strap on my shoulder.
I notice that the bellboys smiling near the ritzy front entrance are a little too aware for my liking. The pair of them do more than just look out for the guests and take care of baggage. Each one of them has eyes out, scanning the sea, as if waiting for something to appear on the horizon. Which is smart, because pirates. Pirates are big here. It’s still a bit more than what I’d usually expect from your average helping hand, so I’m sure to keep an eye on the pair as I make my approach.
The nearest one of them looks over at me. His gaze doesn’t linger on my army jacket, strappy tank top or Defender-Flex jeans. Instead, his eyes go to my scuffed hiking boots and the duffel bag on my shoulder. I look back at him as I approach, see that his arms carry that slightly too muscled yet slightly too thin look that I’ve learned to recognize. It’s the look of a man who’d lost a few dozen pounds during reconnaissance training, and never quite mastered the need to eat more calories than he’d burned. A Philippines Scout qualified soldier would be my guess, or maybe even an alumni of the Ranger School in the U.S.
Worry grows inside of my belly as I come closer. This bellboy is protection, and high quality protection at that. Putting someone like him on simple bellboy duty means that this hotel has enough gun hands on call to be the next best thing to a fortress. Walking through that door will be a pain if anything goes bad, and there are few things worse for a smuggler than being inspected while holding a bag full of guns.
For a moment, I consider messaging the buyer and pulling out. No cop can keep me behind bars for too long, but each detention I rack up is a bread crumb that someone can use to complicate my whole life. I’ve got roots laid down now, and still have Mary, my little sis, to take care of back home. I definitely do not want to risk getting caught.
Another thought comes to me and I sigh a step later. I also have bills. Lots of bills, ranging from the internet connection at my house to the fixer who keeps my address off the grid. The guns weighing down my shoulder won’t quite buy me a new house, but it’ll cover my sister’s tuition for another semester at least.
That alone makes the decision for me. I straighten my back a little, lift up my chin and start walking towards the front doors of the hotel with purpose. I make eye contact with the half bellboy, half commando, as I approach, almost daring him to stop and offer me shit. My hope is that he’ll mistake me for just another arrogant guest on a gap year trip through the more “dangerous,” i.e. brown, corners of the world.
I give the guard a “what’s your problem?” look as I approach. He stares back at me for a moment, before smiling, stepping back and opening the door for me. I don’t blame him for moving, because at a hotel this nice, my expression is usually followed by the “where’s your manager?” voice and unemployment check.
Nose up, I pass by him and into the hotel. A metal detector hidden in the fame of the entry hall door goes off when I enter, but I put on another look of impatience, and the half bellboy, half commando, waves me on through.
For not the first time, I’m glad to be blonde, around six feet, and more than slightly curvy where it counts. My looks are sometimes a problem when it comes to negotiations in some parts of the world, but they more than make up for it in how often security forces underestimate me.
I wander a bit and find my buyer a minute later on one of the hotel’s patio bars. Plain faced and brown haired, he sits in a chair near the incoming sea breeze and sip on one of the resort’s signature and disappointingly umbrella-less cocktails. A garish, red jeweled class ring perches on one of his fingers and clinks the glass of his cocktail whenever he picks it up for a drink. I come closer, and my movement draws his eyes away from a wall mounted flat screen tv and over to me. His gaze takes in my face, the duffel bag on my shoulder, and finally my chest in more or less that order. He makes little attempt to hide where his eyes roam, and I feel a flicker of irritation cross my face as he stares.
I doubt that he takes notice, because in moments he’s already turning back to the TV, his attention captured by a news story about a storm and the resulting influx of Florida refugees. That story was old, even back in my teens, so I know that he’s not actually interested in it.
“Hello.” I say, pulling out a chair. “I’m Robin.”
The man turns back to me with a smile and holds out his hand for a shake. It’s bare save for a red jeweled college class ring.
“I’m the Money.” he says, smiling as if he’d made a joke. I stare at him blankly for a moment until I realize that he’s quoting Casino Royale.
Jesus. I can’t stand people who think that quoting James Bond, and not even the best Bond at that, is a good way to start an arms trade. I want to make fun of him, or at least call him an idiot to his face, but I settle for ignoring his hand, sitting down, and placing the duffel bag at my feet.
“We’ll see if you’re worth every penny.” I say, ignoring my own advice to play nice with the man who, annoying or not, really is the money. “I’m not calling you that, by the way. You’re Todd until the end of this meeting.”
Todd the buyer lifts his eyebrows in surprise aft
er I tell him his new name. While he’s busy doing that, I lean back and raise my hand and call over a waiter.
Todd seems to get over the slight, because his smile, apparently genuine, returns within moments. I don’t like it, though. Something about him, the way he carries himself maybe, sets my teeth on edge. A shiver runs over my arms, rising goosebumps and dredging up old, unclear memories. I shake my head to clear out the thoughts and disguise the motion with another wave for service.
A waitress appears at my elbow a moment later. She’s a pretty, small woman with skin warm looking enough to practically glow. Her smile is so sweet, too, and I find myself thinking that I could eat it right up, along with a few other things.
I flush, because I’ve never picked up the skill of talking smooth outside of my deals. I hear that being a single mother leaves few chances for romance. I’m not a mom, but raising a sibling on my own hasn’t been too different.
The woman leaves with my order before I can embarrass myself, and I turn my attention back to the buyer, who sits there, fiddling with his class ring. He may be a fool, but that doesn’t mean I can let my guard down around him for long. Constant vigilance isn’t just for Hogwarts, especially when you’re still sitting with a very illegal bag of guns at your feet.
“I don’t know if you’re new to this, and I don’t really care.” I said reaching into my pocket. I do it slow, because you always, always, move slow at a meet. Even the most polite buyers tend to be a little twitchy, so I make sure to be careful when I pull my phone out of my pocket a moment later.
“Either way, this works the same.” I continue, opening my phone’s banking app. “You have five minutes, not six or seven, but five, before this meet is concluded and I leave this table. I strongly advise a transfer of funds before then, because I hate taking baggage along with me on a return trip.”
As I finish, I tap the bag of rifles with the tip of my boot, shifting the mass of steel barrels inside with an audible clunk. Some may call that unnecessary, but I’m a big fan of clarity when traveling abroad.