“I get to use the Berettas?” he asks with excitement and disbelief.
I smile as I quickly glance back at him again. I swear to God, his eyes are so wide they might actually just drop out of his head.
“Yeah, why not!”
“Ah, Boss, you’re the best!”
We both laugh, the familiar comfort of our small unit working as normal — light-hearted preparation for a violent undertaking.
I turn another corner and notice the quality of the buildings quickly declining. Everywhere looks run down and abandoned.
“I guess we’re here,” I say.
Another half mile down the road, there’s a large compound on the right. A chain-link fence surrounds it, but it has no gate — just a gap where one should be. I drive straight in and pull up in the middle of the large compound. I kill the engine and check my guns are at my back. Not that I don’t trust Manhattan or anything, but, y’know… I don’t trust Manhattan!
“You ready?” I ask Josh.
He shuts his laptop and stands up, throwing on his hooded sweater.
“All set,” he replies.
We step outside and look around. There are three huge warehouses in front of us, opposite the entrance, plus two on our left and one off to our right. Each one is the width of two houses side by side, I’d say. From the looks of things, some of them are empty. The ground around us is dark and wet, stained from the storm the night before. There are large puddles of rainwater in potholes all around.
I can’t see any signs of life, but there’s a medium-sized van parked out front of the warehouse on the right. I tap Josh on the arm and point to it, and we set off walking across the yard. As we approach, I see a small door embedded in the larger entrance, which resembles a small aircraft hangar. The door opens inward and man steps out and leans against the frame, watching us.
“What’s the name of this guy again?” I whisper to Josh as we approach.
“Oscar Brown,” he replies.
I nod and look straight at the doorman, who’s set off walking to meet us. I hold my arms out to the side, as a gesture of peace.
“We’re here to see Oscar,” I shout over. “Jimmy Manhattan sent us.”
“What you want with Mr. Brown?” the guy replies. His voice was low and gruff, like someone who smoked forty a day.
“I’m shopping,” I say, smiling.
We all stop a few feet from one another, and about twenty feet from the door. The guy looks us both up and down. He’s not much shorter than I am, but with a barrel chest and a round gut. He’s powerful, but his muscle is obscured by years of, what I’m guessing is, heavy drinking.
“Are you a cop?” he asks, indignantly.
“Are you a retard?” I reply instinctively, immediately cursing myself for engaging my mouth before my brain. It’s like an impulse — any sign of a threat and my Tourette’s kicks in.
He starts to move his right hand behind his back, and I react by preparing to punch him in the throat, but a voice from over by the door distracts us all.
“You must be Adrian?” it says.
The guy in front of me visibly relaxes, and I look over his shoulder past him at the figure that’s appeared by the door. He’s a short man, overweight with thinning, greasy hair, and a smile like a used car salesman. He’s grinning and leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest.
“Jimmy told me you were coming,” he continues. “Forgive my friend — he’s just doing his job. I’m Oscar — welcome to my supermarket!”
I look at the building, which doesn’t look like much from the outside.
“No problem,” I shout back as we set off walking toward the warehouse door. I muscle into the doorman’s shoulder on the way past, sending him slightly off-balance.
“Be cool, Adrian,” whispers Josh next to me. I wave my hand dismissively in silent response.
Oscar ushers us both through the doorway and into a kind of reception area, following us inside and shutting the door behind him.
“Jimmy tells me you’re in the market for some hardware…” he says, more a statement than a question.
I nod. “I am. Not sure I’m in the right place though,” I reply, looking around. The room we’re in consists of a desk facing the door and a battered couch against the right hand wall. And that’s it. The office area runs the full width of the warehouse, but it can’t be more than seven feet deep… The actual building is massive on the outside, but inside is tiny in comparison. I look at Josh, who, judging by the frown on his face, shares my confusion.
“No offence, mate,” he says to Oscar. “But for a supermarket, you’ve not got much in the way of, y’know… anything.”
Oscar smiles, probably anticipating the reaction. I’m guessing it’s not the first time he’s come across it. He produces a small remote control from his pocket and presses a button.
“Don’t be so quick to judge,” he says.
There’s a rumbling somewhere in the background as mechanisms burst into life. We turn and see the entire back wall split down the middle and slide apart like giant doors. As they part, they slowly reveal more and more of what they conceal.
I have no issue admitting that my jaw has physically dropped open.
“Fuck me…” I say quietly.
“Happy Christmas…” adds Josh.
Oscar pushes past us and walks through to the warehouse proper. “Gentlemen, if you’d care to follow me,” he calls over his shoulder.
We both follow him through the doors, which have now opened fully to reveal the remaining, hidden area of the building. From the floor, almost all the way to the ceiling are fourteen long metal shelving units, laid out in rows. They are huge! And they’re full of weapons… everything from handguns to hand grenades, from rocket launchers to claymores. You name it; Oscar apparently has it.
We walk slowly, looking all around with an odd sense of wonder.
“What d’you think?” asks Oscar, who’s stopped halfway down one of the aisles.
“Impressive,” I reply, sincerely.
“Thanks. I have a smaller complex over in Pittsburgh, but this is my main storage facility. Now, as I’m sure you can appreciate, gentleman, I like to conduct business quickly.” He gestures around him with both hands. “What do you need?”
I look quickly at Josh, silently asking if he’s happy with how we intend carrying out the job. He nods back. I turn to Oscar.
“I need a high-powered sniper rifle, good for a thousand yards,” I explain. “Fifty caliber, as I need to punch through a brick wall in one shot.”
Oscar thinks for a moment, and walks back past us and then down the next aisle to our left. He re-appears a moment later holding a sniper rifle. It has a long, thin barrel with a disproportionately large square muzzle and a fold-down bi-pod stand attached to the underside of it. He smiles at me as he holds it out for me to take.
“The Steyr HS,” he declares. “It’ll fire the fifty cal’ Browning Machine Gun rounds happily enough. Good for sixteen hundred yards.”
I take it, feeling the weight, and inspecting the weapon. It’s pretty light — can’t be more than thirty pounds.
“Very nice,” I say approvingly.
“And you’re in luck — that’s actually the newer M1 variant, with the five-round mag attachment, as opposed to the old single bolt-action model.”
“Excellent. I’ll take it.”
“A man who knows what he wants — you got yourself a bargain there, my friend.”
“Have you got a thermal imaging scope for it?”
Oscar ducks back into the aisle and re-appears moments later holding a small, long box with another even smaller box balanced on top.
“Thermal scope and fifty cal’ BMG rounds,” he says.
I smile, very satisfied with the hardware. This place is like Disneyland!
“Bag it up,” I say, handing the rifle back to him. “That’s everything I need.”