Turner nods. “A wise choice. You seem to know your stuff, Mr… Hetfield. You’re in luck, too. I had someone just the other day come in and order the same rifle, so I got my hands on a crate of them.”
“Really? Well, that is a stroke of luck.”
I know I’ve got to play it just right, but I leap on the opportunity to try to get something more out of him.
“Hang on a minute,” I say, giving my best look of sudden concern. “What did this other guy look like?”
Turner cocks his head to the side, his eyes narrowing as they flick to one of his bodyguards, then back to me.
“Why?” he asks, suspiciously.
“Well, I’m just thinking — I’ve spent weeks researching this job in extensive detail, and that rifle is perfect for it. If someone else is in town asking after the same gun, maybe they’ve got designs on the same job I do. It’s a competitive business that I’m in, shall we say. I wouldn’t mind checking the guy out, if it’s all the same to you.”
His face softens and his expression mellows again.
“I can understand that. You gotta protect your investments, am I right?”
“Absolutely.”
“But while I feel your pain, Jimmy, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to decline in helping you out with that. I run a reputable business, and the privacy of my clients is paramount. The confidentiality I guarantee with the service I provide is the reason I’m as successful as I am.”
He gestures to the room, as if it’s a prime example of his accomplishments.
“I understand,” I say, not wanting to push my luck. “So, how do you want to work this? I can get the money to you by the end of today. You got a bank account I can arrange a transfer to?”
He laughs again. “Jimmy, I sell weapons for a living — I deal in cash, and I don’t exactly declare things to the IRS, know what I’m saying?”
“Oh, of course — sorry! I can have the cash with you in a few hours. How much are we looking at?”
Turner walks over to me. The bodyguard who’s standing next to him also takes a few steps toward me, but hangs back. I glance around quickly and subtly at the rest of the room. The three women on the sofa aren’t a threat, so I can rule them out. The three guys at the table, the two on the sofa and the one backing up Turner are the main concern. Plus there’s the guy behind me by the door…
Certainly not the best situation I’ve ever been in. However, as sad as it makes my life sound, it’s not the worst either.
Turner’s standing a couple of feet in front of me. I regard him with as neutral a gaze as I can, trying to stay in character.
“Well,” he begins. “For the Glock, I’ll do you a good price, because I like your name.”
He laughs again. I hate people who continuously amuse themselves like that. “You can have it for five hundred,” he continues.
I nod, with a slightly surprised look on my face. “That’s a fair price. I appreciate that, Jo-Jo — thank you.”
He shrugs humbly. “I’m a businessman,” he says. “I know how to conduct my business deals, y’know. Now, the Remington… that’ll cost ya. Seventy-five hundred.”
Being in the line of work that I am, I happen to know that a good price for a sniper rifle of that caliber is around the six thousand mark. What he’s trying to charge me is extortionate!
“That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?” I ask, taking more of a risk than I probably should do.
Turner flexes his shoulders, and I feel all the bodyguards around me tense up.
“Hey, you came to me, remember? You don’t like the price list? Fuck off.”
I sense the guy behind me take a step closer.
Shit.
I’m pretty sure the whole thing’s just gone horribly wrong…
I put my hands up defensively.
“I’m sorry, man. I meant nothing by it. Can’t blame a guy for trying to negotiate a little, right? Seventy-five hundred is fine.”
“No… y’know what? The price just went up. You want the Remington? It’ll cost you an even ten large.”
I sigh. My spider sense is tingling big time. This conversation is only going to end one way, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to cower away and back off and apologize and grovel. I don’t care if I am pretending.
Besides, I need to stall in the hope the next part of my plan works. But before that, I need to get over to that laptop, which isn’t going to happen with seven guys and Turner in the way…
Time for plan B, I think. When in doubt: antagonize and capitalize. Wind them up so they make a mistake, then take advantage.
I look Turner dead in the eye. My persona slowly shifts back to normal. I feel my body relax, my breathing slow and my mind kick in and begin to work on an exit strategy.
The faint sound of gunfire way below us distracts me.
Didn’t even get chance to say anything…
Turner hears it too, as the mood changes and he looks over at the group of three men on my right by the table.
“You three,” he says. “Go and find out what the fuck’s going on.”
The three of them stand and pile out the door. The guy standing by it remains in the room, as do the two on the sofa, who now stand and stare at me.
Turner draws his gun — which is also a Desert Eagle — and aims it at my head.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands.
I hold my hands out to the sides. “I told you who I am. Who the fuck are you?” I reply. “Is this some kind of set up? Are you a fucking cop?”
He scoffs and seems to take genuine offence. “No, I’m fucking not. Are you?”
“No! I just want to buy a goddamn gun — is that too much to ask?”
The door bursts open behind me. I turn and see one of the three guys rushing back in, out of breath.
“Boss, we got a big fucking problem!”
12
Turner doesn’t move, keeping his gun trained on me. He looks at his man.
“What the fuck’s going on?” he asks.
“We got Triad storming the place, spreading out across every floor! They’re shooting everyone they see!”
“Fuck!” He looks back at me. “Well, haven’t you picked the worst fucking time to buy a gun?” he says.
“What’s going on here, Jo-Jo? If there’s trouble, I’d like my guns right now,” I say.
“You just wait here, and don’t fucking move.” He turns to the guys left in the room. ‘You three — you’re with me. I want to know what these ignorant Triad fucks are thinking, attacking me in my house!”
He storms out of the room, followed by the men. I’m left standing on my own, with only three half-naked women who are high, and a doorman who appears unarmed for company.
Perfect.
I look at the laptop, then at the man behind me by the door.
“Hey, I might just take off,” I say. “I think maybe this is a bad time…”
The guy produces a gun from his back and aims it at me.
Oh look, a Desert Eagle…
“The Boss told you to stay put, so you’re not going anywhere,” he says.
I take a step toward him, trying to tempt him closer to me. Seeing me move, he walks toward me and steps a couple of feet in front of me, placing the barrel of his gun against my forehead.
“I said, don’t fucking move,” he says.
I quickly look him up and down. He’s average height and build, no obvious physical limitations. Confident with the gun, but probably not used to thinking for himself, given his job is guarding a door.
I lean my upper body back as I quickly swipe my right hand across to the left, knocking his gun away from me. Unprepared for the attack, he stands frozen and wide-eyed, making my job a whole lot easier. I go to grab his throat, but jab my hand into his larynx instead of gripping it. He drops the gun and holds his throat with both hands as he coughs violently. With my right leg, I kick him hard in the balls. He sinks to his knees, moving one hand to cradle the injured area, but still coughing. I swing my right elbow across, catching him on the side of his head with the thick bone at the top of my forearm. He crashes to the floor unconscious.