More than anything, that's why they'd both been nurturing memories of Vietnam: As they'd chronically had to do over there, they were going in blind.
And, as everybody knew, the worst time in these deals was when the product met the money.
Their choices were rudimentary: Either Willy went in first covertly and found a place to hide and observe, from which he could quickly move in as backup, or Riley went in first as the buyer-since Cashman knew Willy by sight-hoping that most of Cashman's team would then be focused on him and pay less attention to any additional company. They knew the opposition would keep an eye out for the cops, but that didn't preclude a single, trained man from slipping through.
They'd chosen the latter course of action, and after a few whispered exchanges to coordinate what little they could, they parted company, Riley slowly, carefully, and in plain view, walking down the rest of the pier toward the warehouse's primary entrance.
He wasn't armed, despite his rocket launcher comment and their assumption that the sellers would be. The core problem in these deals was that the guns allowed either party to try taking the other guy's offerings by force. In fact, there was a growing trend demanding that all weapons be left behind. Riley had chosen to do so even though the subject had never come up.
He reached the huge, partially open sliding metal door and sidled inside, stopping to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The only light was the city's reflected glow coming through a string of skylights high above. Slowly, what emerged before him was a long, towering central hall extending the length of the building, with girders overhead equipped with traveling winches and catwalks, metal grid-floored galleries on either side about twenty feet up, and a series of large doors, some open, some closed, lining the walls on the first floor. Massive steel pillars stood like regimented redwood trees, two by two, all the way to the end.
The whole enormous place was as still as a tomb.
Riley proceeded to the distant far wall, as he'd been told, discerning as he went a small glimmering of light in the distance. There was moisture on the concrete floor- occasional small puddles of water or oil as black as onyx-and his footsteps, no matter how soft his tread, echoed off the walls to either side of him. He wondered how in hell Willy was going to enter undetected and, not for the first time, why it was he'd stuck his neck out for a dead friend and a complete stranger. Not that he didn't know in his heart. For all that he might have denied it, he hadn't felt this alive since returning from 'Nam.
"Stop."
The voice had come as from some celestial height, without an identifiable point of origin. Riley stopped, keeping his hands open and within plain view.
With a startlingly loud metallic snap, a light suddenly burst alive and surrounded him in a blinding white cone, making him squint in pain. He considered ducking away, to dispel their advantage, but knew that might be the last move he ever made.
"Why are you here?" asked the voice in a dispassionate, almost bored tone.
"Same reason you are."
"No games. Answer the question."
"I want to buy a gun."
There was no response from beyond the light.
A couple of minutes passed before Riley clearly heard the sounds of approaching footsteps, although he still couldn't see a thing. The voice spoke again, but this time from just beyond his vision, a mere few feet away, startling him.
"What's your name?"
"Waldo Upshriner. What's yours?"
The voice laughed. "Very good. You bring the money?"
"Turn the light off or you'll never find out."
Whether because of his tone of voice or the fact that his request had already been anticipated-which was far more likely-the light died as abruptly as it had appeared. The man with the voice waited patiently as Riley blinked and slowly got used to the softer glow of a battery-powered camp lantern atop a nearby fifty-five-gallon drum. Beside it stood two rough-looking men dressed in dark clothing, with guns stuffed into their belts. Whatever this was, it wasn't the romantic claptrap of the movies, where everyone wears fancy suits and pulls up in limos with ten bodyguards. This was a street-level business deal, as gritty as the surroundings in which it was occurring.
High above and nearer the front entrance, Willy Kunkle silently stepped onto one of the grid-decked galleries overlooking the vast room. He had located the one sentry outside, equipped with a walkie-talkie to give the alarm, and had knocked him unconscious without a sound. Then, not trusting to follow Riley's path, he'd opted instead to climb an exterior ladder and enter through a broken office window. Which had led him to where he was now, just in time to see the bright light replaced by the weaker one.
He could hear the voices of the three men, although not what they were saying, and hoped to hell things would continue smoothly, at least until he got closer. He removed his rubber-soled shoes and shoved them into his coat pocket, to be sure that the metal grating beneath his feet would not issue a betraying sound at the wrong moment.
Moving slowly, crouched low from instinct, his gun in his hand, Willy placed one foot before the other, as carefully as if he'd been treading razor-thin ice.
Below him, Riley was negotiating: "You said on the phone it was six hundred for the one piece. I can live with that this time, to show good faith, but I got to have a break if we're going to be dealing in quantity."
Ron Cashman-whom Riley recognized from Willy's description of the bandage especially-shook his head. "You think the risk goes down with more guns? It's just the opposite. Besides, I don't know you. Why should I cut you any breaks?"
Riley smiled. " 'Cause you're goin' to want to know me. I got what you need. And don't feed me that crap about higher risk. I'm offering to buy fifteen pieces off you in one shot. What d'you think is riskier? One deal for good money, or fifteen deals where you got fifteen chances of selling to a cop?"
Willy was getting closer, had almost gotten to where he had the advantage over both Cashman and his henchman.
Cashman pulled his gun from his waistband. "What tells me you're not a cop?"
This time Riley actually laughed. "You knew me, you wouldn't ask." He turned and began walking away, adding, "You also ain't the only guy sellin' guns."
Cashman hesitated, either thinking things over or waiting for Riley to stop.
But Riley kept on walking, out of the lantern's immediate reach.
"Wait. Hold on. We got off on the wrong foot here," Cashman said, replacing his gun.
Riley turned to face him, but stayed where he was. "We stopping the dick-around dance, then? We gonna do business?"
Cashman let out a forced laugh. "Yeah, yeah. You show me yours, I'll show you mine." He reached into his pocket and removed a rag-wrapped bundle the size of a hardback book. He laid it onto the barrel's top with a deep, echoing clang.
Which was repeated by Willy as he brushed past a piece of unseen rebar leaning up against the wall and knocked it over with a startling, reverberating, heartstopping rattle.
The reactions below him were simultaneous and immediate. The sidekick pulled out his gun and stared up at the gallery, partially blinded by the light near his head. Cashman pointed his gun at Riley. And Riley dove for cover farther into the darkness around him.
Three gun flashes filled the air like a triple burst from a fireworks display-the sidekick shooting in Willy's direction, Willy shooting back, hitting the man in the chest, and Cashman firing at Riley Cox, who let out a grunt, spun around, and landed like a dead tree, bouncing without a twitch.
After that, it was a running firefight between Willy and Ron Cashman, with the latter sprinting toward the back of the building, shooting wildly over his shoulder, and the former keeping pace twenty feet above him, firing through the steel grate at his feet and sending up a row of sparks from the fragmenting bullets.