Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Klempner

A quick trawl of some of the greyer websites I use from time to time quickly produces what I want: contact details for an arms merchant who isn’t too fussy about inspecting, or even asking for, documentation or licences relating to either his merchandise or his clientele. Online, it seems ideal, but when I arrive at the address, I’m unimpressed.

I could be in the set of some clichéd hack movie. The side alley is dark and damp. The building is of the would-fall-down-but-is-held-up-by-the-dry-rot variety. It’s even better as I enter.

The proprietor has, apart from a serious case of halitosis, a gold tooth. Why I have no idea. It glints from among a sundry dental collection in black, brown and yellow. Apart of course from the three which are missing altogether from the front. Maybe he lost them in a fight. Or perhaps they ran for cover from their horrible housing.

Having wandered into the area wearing my don’t-mind-me-I’m-a-tourist uniform, I’m beginning to regret the cream linen suit. Stained jeans and a dark tee-shirt would have been more appropriate.

Or perhaps a wetsuit.

I move carefully, preferring not to brush against the walls or furniture, and wishing it were as easy to close the nostrils as the mouth.

Toothy snaps fingers at me. “Sua permissão para comprar.”

I allow confusion to cross my face. “I’m sorry, do you speak English? I want to buy a gun. You were recommended to me.”

His features display a running battle between Irritation and avarice.

The opportunity to sap the ignorant but wealthy foreigner…

“I talk English small, yes.” He holds out his hands, fingers wriggling in a Gimme gesture. “Your permit for gun?”

Making a show of taking the paperwork from my wallet, I unfold it, stroking out the creases, It’s part of the ‘toolkit’ Dakho routinely runs up for me. I’ve no clue whether it is completely fake or a copy of something he hi-jacked from elsewhere. It could even be the genuine article. But he’s never let me down yet. In any case, it’s good enough to pass Toothy’s cursory examination.

“Okay, you want gun for nice English tourist. To protect, yes?”

“That’s right.” I award him a small smile. “To protect myself.”

Toothy sniffs with a sound like bad plumbing, then heads for a door, jerking his thumb at me to follow.

In the next room…

Ah-ha…

That’s more like it…

another. Grenade launchers rub shoulders with anti-tank weapons. A bazooka nestles in one corner, shoved close to a rocket launcher. Stacked crates are marked up for the old L2 grenades as well

offers out a hand to the

a finger… “Those…” I

I would like. The gold tooth winks at me. “Perhaps you not just

want to make a sale

snorts again, produces a key and unlocks

tags, but they look like knock-offs, and not very good ones. The paint is shiny and the metal polished, but it’s cheap civilian junk designed for

when

‘sport’ if lions could fire

as I eye the manufacturer’s mark and heft the thing in my hands.

gun, senhor.” Toothy raises a thumb. “Melhor qualidade. Bestest

Hmmm…

got a firing

“Senhor?”

para praticar? Testar?” I hold up the weapon to my shoulder,

what looks to be a bricked-up alleyway: a long narrow street, perhaps two

from strings, swinging in the slight breeze. Some are human silhouettes, concentric circles marked on the chest.

“Ammunition?”

the card soft with age, speckled with mould. Even as I snap off the magazine, feeding in the

Fucking fake…

Go through the motions…

make my point

20 rounds. As a precaution, I only

Probably jam anyway…

action on the trigger isn’t as smooth as it should be. As I squeeze back, something clicks that

Burred?

Unfinished surface?

range, were it a genuine AR-15, Paper-Boy should have three neat holes puncturing his

round veers off to the left. One drops low. On the third

Fucking waste of time…

as I propel the barrel at his chest. “You going to show me the real thing now? Or do I have to get annoyed? I’m not here

Perhaps…” He sets the ‘AR-15’ to one side. Perhaps you want this?” He

they’re not. But this time, it’s the real McCoy: AK-47s and AKMs. Soviet-made