Bingo presto good to go.
One nice ragged hole right at POA/POI.
He went back upstairs to his work bench, disassembled the pistol and cleaned it, lubed it, then reloaded the magazines. Rummaged through a drawer till he found an older IWB strong side holster from Sparks, the Executive, and a matching double mag carrier. Hard to beat Sparks, even in this day of kydex. He set up the holster and the mag pouch, laid it on the bench.
Nice.
His cell phone rang. It was Jimmy.
"Hello?"
"Deon, you at the shop?"
"Yes."
"I'll be by."
"I'm here. I've got a present for you."
"On my way."
Deon leaned back, kicked his feet up, lit a cigarette, blew a circle of smoke with a contented sigh. Life was good. The entry buzzer rang. Deon looked up at his camera and saw three men standing at the door. Somalis, by the look of them. Hmmm. Business had been slow, and he really couldn't afford to blow them off, though he was tempted to. He hit the buzzer and they came through the door. Deon got up and walked through the curtains to the storefront with his cases of handguns and racks of rifles, ammo and accessories.
Face to face, definitely Somali. Oftentimes he wondered at how Lake City had come to have such a concentration of bad-ass minorities: first the Hmong, now the Somalis, making Lake City a hot spot for terror activity, as well as a particularly vicious brand of armed violence.
Not that Deon minded. He did, after all, vacation regularly in South Africa, though he was a bit saddened watching Lake City go the way of Jo'burg.
"Hello, sir," the oldest said, early middle age, maybe 40s, man in charge type. "We are interested in handguns for self-defense."
Deon smiled his crocodile smile. "Well, you've come to the right place."
The two younger shooters -- because that's what they surely were, early 20s, cocky and grinning with the certainty of blooded killers -- nodded in agreement.
"So who's first?" Deon said, his cigarette smoldering in his left hand.
"I'm sorry?" the older man said.
"What sort of training do you have? Do you have any...experience...with hand guns? That would help me help you," Deon said affably.
Silence.
"Yes," the older man said. "I have some experience. But we would also like training. I am told by my friends that you are a very good trainer. We would like to take classes from you. After we buy our pistols."
"Have you taken the CCW class yet?"
"No, sir."
"That would be a good first step. I have one this weekend, and there will be room available. Perhaps you'd like that? Yes?"
The two shooters began the shark-circle, one going to the left, one going to the right. Deon grinned, took a long drag on his cigarette.
"Well, then...let's see what we can show you..." he said.
Number 1 shooter started the dip of the shoulder that showed he was going for something Mexican carry, or appendix as the tacti-cool guys said, and Deon flipped his lit cigarette very casually and accurately directly at Number 1's face while his right hand cleared his open shirt and came up with his Weapon of The Day, an old USGI issue .45 manufactured by Springfield Armory and lovingly rebuilt and refinished by Deon, who loved an old weapon with history, and it cleared his old Bruce Nelson Classic Summer Special and he put the first round right in the older man's face because, well, Deon hated disrespect, and they obviously took him for a poofer, so he planted a Federal HTX 230 grain right on the bridge of his nose, that done for and the other two were frozen like a freeze-frame in a movie, #1 covering his face, #2 stuck like a deer in the headlights, and now Deon acquired a full firing grip, as shown him by that lovely man Claude Werner during one of his periodic tune-ups down at the Harvard of Gunfighting Schools, Bill Rogers in Georgia, thumbs forward, very distinctive with the strong side thumb on top of the support hand, and pressed the trigger and watched the front sight track almost directly straight back while a pink hole emerged on the bridge of #2 shooter's nose, and then rode the track right back to #1 who was opening his mouth and raising his hand to say something, probably No or Stop or something similarly useless, so Deon shot him right in the mouth and out the back of his brain stem and watched him drop to the floor almost simultaneously with #2 and then he came around the counter and serviced them each once more in the head, speed reloaded and scanned the door just as Jimmy entered, his Glock 30 locked out and tracking, and Deon said:
"Service with a smile, oke. That's what you get at Deon's."
Jimmy John Wylde
"Well, this is a pretty goat-fuck," I said. I looked back out the door; no lingering shooters in stand-off, just a couple of people across the street hurrying away, and only the light flow of traffic this neighborhood got in the light of day. "Who are these guys?"
Deon shrugged. He reloaded and reholstered his 1911. "Were, oke. Who *were* these guys. Proper grammar, like, yes?"
I put my Glock away. Deon knelt beside the shooter with his hand still on the pistol that had never fully cleared his waistband. Deon wrapped his hands around the man's hand and pulled out the pistol, aimed it carefully, and fired at the camera housing.
"Damn it," I said. "Let a guy know, will ya?"
"Sorry, oke. Just in case the Polizei are enroute. Just a tick..."
He stepped behind the curtain and came back out a moment later. "Seems the hard drive took a power surge when the camera went out. Nothing left after he went for his gun..."
"You call it in?"
"Pushed the button. Should be about 8-10 minutes, depending on traffic, but then they have that unpleasantness in St. Paul today, so it may be a bit more."
It actually took the PD 9 minutes to respond, two squads, both senior guys, so in a few minutes a shift supervisor, the Coroner and the Homicide Duty Dick were enroute while the uniforms took notes, checked IDs, took Deon's pistol and his attorney's card, and asked me a variety of questions, which I answered: "I don't recall, I only heard shots, when I came in it was all over."
Par for the course.
Of course Deon had to go downtown, but after a brief review of the remaining footage on the "damaged" hard drive, the Duty Dick said, "Your lawyer can meet us down there, I gotta talk to the prosecutor, but there's no crime here. You'll be free to go in a coupla hours, max."
So I let myself out and locked up after the crime scene guys cleared; didn't take long with the wonder of technology -- Jimmy John, Jimmy John -- being what it was, so I was alone in the aftermath.
Wondering. Me and Deon? Known players. Not the first pick for a bunch of armed robbers in this town, especially since Deon's body count as a genuine armed citizen defender of his small business was higher than most of the gunfighters on the police department. The thinking that would go into fronting a man with Deon's rep on his home turf surrounded by weapons was more than a little flawed.
Timing and synchronicity.
Those were things to pay attention to.
Gonna have to make a pass, Jimmy John...
This wasn't Hank's signature. He was a hands-on kind of guy. Explosives and incendiaries, yes; low rent shooters, no. Unless it was a throw-away to hide the coming main event.
Or maybe just a bunch of seriously stupid shooters looking to take down a gun store and take off with the product. The mix is what bothered me: an older guy and two younger shooters. And why do it this time of day? No telling with crazies, and the Somalis are known crazies, especially the hard-core gangsters, let alone the dedicated jihadists among them who sought out training overseas and returned to bring jihad to the mainland.
What the fuck was going on?
Nina and Nico
"I'll tell you what the fuck is going on," Nina said. "I'm stuck with you and you're..."
"Maybe you're the one stuck in here with me. You ever think that?" Nico said.
Nina paused. Laughed. "How long you been waiting to use that line? You a fucking comic book geek too?"
"What are y
ou talking about?"."
"Over your head and into the yard, Nico. Over your thick fat head. Never seen THE WATCHMEN?"
"The what?"
"Thick. Seriously thick. You can hang out here in the garage. Go ask the duty wrench really nice, maybe he'll let you borrow a Segway, or you can down and kiss the Horse Cop's ass and see if they'll lend you a ride. Ask for Tim Hanks, tell him I sent you."
" Capushek, will you please, as in pretty fucking please with my cherry on top, listen to me?"
Nina snorted. "I think maybe you got your green beret off a Girl Scout, you fucking loser."
Nico bristled as Nina laughed.
"Like I've been trying to say," he went on. "I'm not happy either. I apologize. It was fucking stupid. So there. I said it. I can't get out of this, not today, probably not at all. But for today, we got dead cops laying out there, dead fire fighters, and a whole lot of other dead people. Can we put this shit aside, just for now, and get on with it? We got work to do."
Nina scratched the bridge of her broken nose with her left hand, studied Nico. Considered.
"Yeah," she said. "When you put it like that. We can. Don't get in my fucking way, follow my lead, do what I tell you when I tell you. Got it?"
"Yes."
"What you running besides that pistol?"
"Same thing on my ankle."
"Okay. Me two. There's a carbine and an Active Shooter bag with extra mags in the trunk. This isn't a shooting problem, or at least not yet, but in case it is, you checked out on the carbine?"
"Yes."
"Figured as much, you being one of those veteran guys. Let's go find some bad guys and put hot lead in their head. Shall we?"
She turned and stalked off, and despite himself, Nico couldn't help but grin at that fine ass in those skin tight pants.
"Don't stare at my ass."
"Sorry."
They got in the car and pulled out of the garage.
Nicholas Le Fronte, AKA Nico
This was just like that police station outside of Ramadi, Nico thought. Smoking ruin, rubble everywhere, red and blue lights flickering and disconcerting even in the light of day. Disorienting, especially when you saw the building, or what was left of it, like a gigantic toothed creature had taken a bite out of it and then spat it out.
"So what exactly are we doing here?" he said.
"OGA knows me. They got a tasking and they need me to run pathfinder for them."
"You worked OGA?"
"No. They come looking for favors once in awhile."
"Why do they come looking for you?"
"Why does anybody? Because you go find the person who can get things done. Around here, it's me. That's why your bosses sent you. Isn't it?"
"Yes," Nico said. "That's why they sent me."
"Poor fucking you," Nina said. "C'mon, that's who I'm looking for." She eased through the crowd to a tall woman with the long angular facial planes of Norwegian descent. Nico took his time catching up, eased off to Nina's right and behind her. He nodded to the tall woman, who extended her hand and said, "Hi, I'm Carol Lundquist. I work for the affected Agency."
"Nico. ATF. Sorry for the hit you guys took."
"Thanks." She turned back to Nina. "The cameras transmit to a hard-drive inside the building. All the electronics are backed up hourly at a remote facility. We've got people checking that now. We haven't recovered the main hard drive and don't know if it will be intact; if we get it, we can recover the data, or at least most of it. We hope. So maybe we can get some vid, some photos, some kind of imagery to put it together. We don't know if it was a suicide bomber or a park in place job yet. But we want you, as soon as we have it, to run it hard and fast through your local network. We have reason to believe that there may be some connection in the local Hmong community and you have excellent contacts there."
Nina nodded. "I know some people. You get me the imagery, I can get it done. What leads you to believe there's Hmong involvement?"
Lundquist sighed, looked around. "Look, I hate being Secret Squirrel, but this project has classification above my head, so it's above all of us. Off the record, and I mean *really* off the record as in we never said anything at all, this project has connections in our Outfit going back to the sixties and the White Star operation in Laos, and a lot of those players were and remain instrumental in the Hmong community here. Look up Loyalty on Wikipedia and you'll find those players. But there's more than a little division and a whole lot of animosity going on about some things there, and that's where it gets...complicated. That's all I can say, and I never said it. Got it?"
"Got it," Nina said. "Not my first rodeo."
"I hear that," Lundquist said. "You ever want a job..."
"No thanks," Nina said. "I got enough scar tissue between my shoulder blades."
Lundquist laughed. "No lie, GI. Stand by. I'll get it to you when I get it to you."
She walked off, her gait slightly crooked, tired and worn down.
"What the fuck am I, chopped liver?" Nico said.
"Just not a player," Nina said.
"I..."
"For a so-called street animal, you sure let people push your buttons," she said. "Chill the fuck out. I want some Vietnamese coffee. Let's go get some."
"What about helping out here? The EMS..."
Nina turned and gave him a serious look. "Hey, Nico...look, I appreciate the thought in that, and I can see that it's genuine. But it's not our job, and we need to be fresh and ready to roll when it's our time in the gate. I know you want to help, and so do I. But there's lots of people to help EMS, and there's only the two of us to catch these fuckers if their lead is right. So let's keep our head in the game and our game face on for what our job is, 'kay? Let's get that coffee..."
Dee Dee Kozak
"Don't get me wrong, I love men, I mean, I *love* men, but honey, if I ever crossed that line into girl on girl, you'd be the girl for me!" Dee Dee gushed over herbal tea at the little cafe in the back of The Space for Peaceful Living. "You are so gorgeous..."
Lizzy was a real piece of work -- gorgeous, quiet, that whole New Age thing about her. And a stripper? C'mon. What's not hot about that? Not your run of the mill exotic dancer, that's for sure. And that presented opportunity and a hint of access, which in Dee's line of work was always something to watch for.
"You're very beautiful, Dee," Lizzy said. "So much strength about you." She sipped her tea. "Did you enjoy the class?"
"Honestly, it will take some getting used to," Dee said. "I'm not really a yoga girl. Feels like I'm cheating if I'm not sweating and aching afterwards. But this kinda sweaty and relaxed, I think I could get used to it. Nice. Different. Felt my muscles in a whole new way."
"That's what I like most. You really feel into your body differently."
"You're not what most people think of when they think 'exotic dancer.'"
Lizzy laughed and lifted her tea cup in a toast. "You mean stripper?"
"Yeah."
"What's not to like about it?" Lizzy said. "Yes, sometimes it can be sad, watching some men and how they are; I don't do privates or lap dances, I just do the runway. I think it would be different if I were doing that. But my following supports me well. I like my work. I won't do it forever. I may teach yoga."
"I can see you doing that," Dee said. "More your way than the other. Nothing against it."
Lizzy shrugged. "Come by some time? You might enjoy it. Lots of women come there. It's a good place. The Trojan Horse."
Dee stiffened. Lizzy furrowed her brow. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, yeah, just a twinge. Wasn't that the nightclub they had that gunfight in not long ago? The big shoot out?"
"Yes," Lizzy said. "It was. I was there."
"Get out! For real?"
"Yes. It was frightening. But I was well protected."
"You guys got good security in there?"
"Yes. A friend of mine was there as well. She's a police officer. She was the one who shot it out with those men."
"Will you be in town long?"
"Oh, my business brings me here pretty often. I'm mostly hotel hopping now, using up club points. But for the time being, yes. Want to meet up for a drink later?"
"I have to work tonight and I don't drink before I work..."
"Maybe then I'll have to come by and see you?"
"You come down! I'll leave your name at the front with the doorman, he's my friend, you can come in free anyway and I'll make sure your drinks are covered. Come down and watch me dance!"
Dee grinned. "Maybe I'll find the love of my life there."
"You never know," Lizzy said. "I did."
KiKi Warren, AKA Neo Death God
KiKi tripped down the jet way in her work clothes. The Catholic School Girl was gone; she'd gone full GIRL IN THE DRAGON TATTOO with black tights, knee high black leather motorcycle boots, a classic Rolling Stones T-shirt knock off and a black leather jacket, black wraparound Oakley sunglasses and a Patagonia Critical Mass Messenger bag in Citrus Green for the accent. Her ID said she was Wiley Monaghan, which was her inside joke on her love of Looney Tune Cartoons, Wiley Coyote and her favorite actress, Michelle Monaghan. Wiley Monaghan was 22, a student at the University of Minnesota who paid out of state tuition and had a resident address with Moms and Pops in St. Louis, MO, a Platinum Visa with a $20K limit and a $472.93 balance, and about 15 pounds of computer gear stuff in her messenger bag.
She grinned to herself at the looks she caught coming from the men; for a 13 year old she had a nice ass, and the jacket disguised her lack of full bosom, though she was sprouting some. Amazing what fashion could do for a girl.
Down the escalator to the luggage carousel to pick up her small wheeled duffel, and then to the taxi stand.
"Hyatt Regency, please."
The middle eastern man -- Somali? -- leered at her in the mirror and said, "Yes, very quick, miss. I will get you there."
She ignored him and stared out the window. Lake City was pretty. Lots of trees and parks and greenway, though the traffic from the airport to the hotel downtown sucked. Glad she wasn't driving. She wasn't a really good driver, but why drive when she could afford a driver? It felt GREAT to be out doing her thing in the world, operating, just like a real deal operator. And she was looking forward to meeting Double D Bodacious later for drinks. She'd had a Cosmo before, but it wasn't really great. She'd looked up cool drinks on the Internet and thought she'd go for a classic Margarita, with salt, served in a tumbler instead of a margarita class. Some famous dead writer liked it that way. It sounded cool.
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