After his meeting with Tarvish, Saga was hot on the trail. ISIS Guns. From Oregon. It would make one hell of a TIME magazine story. Saga thought his cover was perfect; he was disguised as a library tech assistant. He traveled to libraries and updated their computer servers.
Why was it the perfect gig? Saga spent all day tracking cybercrime. On the government’s payroll. Right under everyone’s nose. Why was it the best cover? Cause who fucks with librarians? No one, that’s who.
He was the only techie in that fugly hick town (as he referred to it in text messages). Harney County Library. The building had a rural flavor to it. It was that suburban, cookie-cutter, painted the color of cookies-n-crème ice cream. The generic brand.
On his first day of work, Saga gave his orders to the head librarian. “Government approved some funds to update rural access to the internet.” That wasn’t untrue. The government gave a small shit about rural internet use. It gave a shit about tracking illegal firearms purchases in the area cause of The Macy’s Parade attack.
Saga loved his job. There was hardly a day he wasn’t smiling. He got a thrill from it. It was the sneaking. He loved dangerous places because he hid in the shadows. The FBI was everywhere. Since the National Wildlife Refuge standoff, the place crawled with Feds. The citizens were on their guard. These patriots wouldn’t give up their second amendment, so they hid, and quietly sold their guns for Bitcoin. Lots of guns were trickling out of Burns, OR. Saga was constantly seeing purchases. The thing was, there were more lately. A lot more. They were leaving town on an almost daily basis. Being shipped in the mail. Like birthday presents.
The ATF was working with the FBI. GUNS + INTERNET. Saga was in charge of the Dark Web part.
In no time at all, Saga had become a local. His wardrobe transformed. He wore a Miller Lite flannel, Rocky Mountain boots, and Wrangler denim. He let his few beard hairs grow wild. In a week, he was the new town favorite. He got invited to ride ATVs. He went and watched everyone else have fun. He was on duty, taking notes in his head.
He met Sammie on a trip. She came to the library a lot. She was a Garden & Guns kind of gal. Her husband loved guns. Sammie invited Saga to go shooting with the boys. Saga declined but asked for her husband’s number.
Now that he had the number, he had control. That’s what Saga craved: control.
Saga sent him a text a day later.
[S-Hey Dylan, it’s Ron G. The librarian. Your wife Sammie invited me to the range on Wed. I told her no, but my other plans fell through. Can I still join?]
[D -Howdy Ron. Sure can. Boys are there by 8am. Thunder Ranch]
“Bingo,” said Saga, already trying to tap Dylan’s phone.
[D-You ever shoot before?]
[S- I once shot my sister’s husband’s Beretta. Fucking fun.]
[D- haha we’ll show you a good time.]
Saga woke up early, made coffee, and drove 35 miles to Thunder Ranch. He left his Glock in the glove box. This was God’s country, and he never wanted to catch the lord off-guard.
God delivered. He was welcomed to firearms, flack jackets, winter coats, denim, and cowboy hats. It was a hootenanny. Saga stuck out like a sore thumb.
“Hope you don’t get too wet in them boots, boy,” said a man idling up to Saga’s car. He was carrying an AR-15 with an extended mag. This guy was a ginger and enjoyed one too many Big Macs.
“Shoot son, you got an iron grip,” the guy said shaking Saga’s hand, “you must tug the chug 5 times a day.”
“What the hell else am I suppose to do in the library?” Saga shot him. The two men laughed, and like that Saga was in. He was given a beer and a welcome from the 7 other guys.
The arsenal was impressive, even to an FBI agent. They had thousands of hollow-tipped rounds, Browning bolt-actions, scoped AK-47s, Bushmasters with bayonet attachments, S&W rifles, S&W sidearms, scoped .44 Magnums, a laser sighted .38 special, Mossbergs with every attachment imaginable. And a Browning automatic rifle. A WWII BAR
In short, there were a ton of fucking guns.
Saga tried to contain his enthusiasm upon seeing the WWII relic.
“Where’d you get the BAR?” Saga said, not fully able to finish when-
“Iwo Jima. You see that beauty. Her name’s Ethel,” popped out of Dylan’s mouth. “Named after my Memaw. That little sugar dumplin’ stuck 7 Japs on that island. Pap-pap was able to sneak it back home. His field officer turned the other way. The Japs were shooting bombs into Oregon, so he decided it was a… national security measure to have Pap-pap keep the damn thing.”
Dylan looked up at Saga. “How in hell you know the BAR, bookman?” he asked.
“Oh, man, you stay in a library long enough, you read a little of everything. They wrote a lot of books on World War Two.”
The men erupted into laughter. They took a liking to this thin, scrubbed librarian.
“You, uh, you wanna shoot it?”
“Um… Fuck yeah.” said Saga. He was given neon range spectacles and earmuffs. He was already eyeing the beer-can target and played stupid. “So, is this thing gonna like break my arm?”
“Hah, I hope not, bookman. Just make sure you don’t piss yourself. That thing’s got a hella kickback. Maybe we should start you out on something lighter like a—”
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BOOM.
Saga let a couple of slugs rip downrange. It wasn’t a huge magazine. The punch on those rounds were fun. Saga thought about this gun’s history. How many Japanese boys exploded looking down the barrel of this gun?
He emptied the magazine. He nailed a bunch of the targets, and the men were impressed. “Beginner’s luck, huh?” said Saga. He would miss the rest of his targets for the rest of the day, unfortunately. He was at work, after all.
The morning turned into day. The sun warmed their frosty beers. Saga grabbed a gun he knew was illegal.
“So where can I get one of these? Do I need a license?” Saga wasn’t nervous. He didn’t get nervous much anymore. Not since he played pro table tennis in China.
The men exchanged blotto looks. They chuckled in unison. “A lot of different places. Internet. Gun shows. Gun shops. Big Foot Conventions. It ain’t hard to find these.”
“But you need a license, right?” asked Saga.
“You need a background check. Mostly,” popped one of the men.
“Mostly? What, like gun show loophole?” said Saga.
“That’s some bookman lingo if I ever heard. You can buy at the gun show. That’s a prime place to go, ‘specially for the higher caliber stuff. They’re all full of feds now, not like in the good ole’ days. You could buy goddamn hand-grenades you ask the right people. Now everyone’s scared with the FBI in town. I’d ask Tommy,” the man craned his neck and yelled behind him. “Hey, Tommy! What you see at the gun shows? You sell them, right?”
Tommy turned. He was the fattest in the bunch, with piercing blue eyes and a button nose. He had a shaved head and a trimmed beard. He was most-definitely a skinhead.
“What ’bout?” said Tommy, in a voice too tiny for a big person.
“You still sell at gun shows?”
“Not since I got tailed. I stick to Bigfoot conventions now,” said Tommy.
“Tailed?” asked Saga. “FBI?”
“Yep. Last time I sell to a nigger. Last summer, I sell some South Side Chicago punk some Rugers. This nigger come up asking about handguns and putting them GoPro cameras on ’em. Dumb ass apes try to sell those videos on the internet. They’re the real reason Uncle Sam tryna take my guns away. FBI tails me from the event, and tell me I sold to a known criminal. It all worked out, ‘cept I had to give ‘em all my good guns. Fuckin’ niggers, man.”
“Was the nigger a city boy?” asked Saga. The word clambered out of his mouth. It’d been some years since he’d said it aloud.
“Sure was. Some Crip/Blood jim-jam or what not. ’e fuckin’ sounded stupid as shit talkin’ to me. I cut ’im a deal, but they ’ventually got those punks ‘fore they go out and make them videos.”
“Shit… just goes to show ya,” said Dylan, putting down a beer, and spinning the cylinder of a .44 Magnum, “can’t trust no one nowadays. Stick to gun shops, bookman. Legit is the way to go with guns.”
“And maybe you stop spinning my chambers and ruinin’ my gun, Dylan,” said Tommy, stealing back his Magnum.
He started to walk away from the trucks and towards the range. “Anyway bookman, you don’t have any felonies, right? You clean, boy?” said Dylan.
“In college, they caught me pissin’ on the side of the library. That count?”
The boys started hollering. “Shit, so you’re a sex offender?”
“Not unless I’m black,” said Saga, stoking more laughter from these hicks.
“You know what, bookman, you’re alright. Ready for some more?”
Saga did shoot some more and left without any bullet holes. They would have killed him if they discovered he wasn’t “Ron”.
Now that Saga had met some gun players, he was gonna make a nice little breakthrough. Most people used the Dark Web to have guns shipped. Other, stupider, people met in person.
And Saga found their stupider-people text chats.
PatRIOT9D was selling TEC-9s. Quite a few of them. In a McDonald’s parking lot. Saga knew the one. He drove out that way about 30 minutes before the purchase. He parked across the street. The night was frosty and empty.
Before long, he saw headlights come together. Two cars met in the parking lot. Saga had his binoculars and saw someone familiar. It was Tommy. Handing someone a box. A power-tools box. Black & Decker. Some kind of chop saw or something. That “power tool” box might be responsible for a murder. That’s fine. That’s not what Saga was after.
He was after Tommy.
Saga let the men leave McDonald’s. Then he followed Tommy. All the way back to his house. It was harder to tail someone in the middle of nowhere. Tommy should have been paranoid. He wasn’t paranoid enough. Saga parked and walked to Tommy’s car. He planned to break into his truck but didn’t have to. Tommy didn’t lock the car. Not paranoid enough.
Saga moved the mirror and laid down in the back seat. Let’s play a game Tommy.
Using his phone, he jumped onto the Dark Web. He got onto the convo from PatRIOT9D. He was posing as the customer who bought the TEC-9s.
[You serious?! I ordered more than this. You better fucking meet me at the parking lot and give me my guns or my money back. Don’t try me. I know your car. 10 minutes.]
It didn’t take too long before Tommy waddled back to the car. He opened the door, and shoved himself in. As he did, Saga put his handgun into Tommy’s skull. He put out his phone. There was a text. It read:
[Don’t move. You’re gonna answer some questions, PatRIOT9D.
EASY or HARD way? Answer.]
“Easy,” Tommy said. He sure was upset.
Saga started texting on his phone, then put the screen back in Tommy’s face.
[You sell lots of guns. Illegal ones. You ship them.
YES or NO?]
“Yea.”
[You mail the guns.
YES or NO?]
“Yea.”
[You mail to the Middle East.
YES or NO?]
“Sure. Yes.”
[Who is your buyer?]
Tommy gulped. He wasn’t liking this. Saga wasn’t either. He had better things to do on New Year’s Eve.
“Someone called detective Emma 3.”
[MORE]
“I don’t know. She pays me. I send her the stuff. Not rocket science.”
[How long?]
“I been sellin’? To her? Damn, I don’t know. Like 3 weeks. Knew I shouldna done it. It was only small stuff. 3 weeks. That’s it.
[Only one buyer? Middle East?]
“Huh. I s’pose you already know.” Saga didn’t. “No. There were other buyers. A lot, actually. They paid just ’bout the same as Emma 3. Lot of guns from there. I mean, we got a lot, so I sold a lot. I can get you a lot, if you don’t kill me. I can get you a whole lot, but you can’t go blowing my head off. The money is stuck in my head. It’s all computer money. Bitcoin. You want it, you’ll have to keep me around.”
At that moment, Saga got a call. It was ATF. He let it go to voicemail and whacked Tommy on the back of the head. Tommy flinched. It was just enough time for Saga to put him in a chokehold. “Goodnight, Tommy.” Tommy slept as Saga turned on his car. Had to give the poor guy some warmth.
Saga called the ATF back. The timing was unbelievable.
“You’re saying you just tracked the Middle East guns?” said Saga.
“It’s weird. A giant blip came on our radar. Right in Portland, Oregon.”
“How?”
“We think it might be a mistake. Might be a trap, but it’s live. Screen name called _detective_emma_3”
“Well, I’ll be…” murmured Saga. “That’s too good. Get the police there. Close off the block.”
“Already on it. I’ll relay back with you when we’re set up.”
“Perfect. I’m on my way to Portland. ASAP.”
“Drive safe on those roads.”
Saga headed for his car. He gave a call to 9-1-1. Burns 9-1-1. He put on his librarian voice. “Hi, there’s a drunk driver at 7170 Rip Rap Road. His car is on. I think he’s trying to go out on the road again.” That should do it, he thought.
Saga sat in his car and roared out onto the highway. It was the last crisp dry December night. New Year’s Eve. Great. Saga could still use his phone while driving.
He hopped onto the Dark Web and was able to find _detective_emma_3. Doing some one-handed texting, he started researching. He got the skinny on _detective_emma_3. Looked like she was from Portland. He was able to find her on Instagram, of all places. Looking through her photos, it didn’t make sense. This was some teenybopper. She seemed young for her photos. Too young to be able to buy guns. She didn’t seem to be a troll account.
“The Fuck?” said Saga, getting another call.
“We’re in position. Looks pretty suburband. Cars outside. Family home. Someone likes Ferraris by the look of this house. We have SWAT ready.” Saga was hesitant to give orders. “We can wait on your go, but we have the target in sight. How far out are you?”
“Hang on,” said Saga looking at his GPS. “I won’t be there for another four hours. Sun will be coming up by then.”
“That’s too long to keep these guys waiting.”
“You’re wrong. They damn well better wait right where they are. Hold on. I’m getting a text. Let me call you back.”
Saga pulled over to think. He could spare 60 seconds. He looked at his text.
[_detective_emma_3 is a decoy. I need your help. I’m hostage in Syria & Iraq. ISIS. I found you cause I’m better at hacking than you, but whatever. Something bad is about to happen. I can’t stop it unless you stop this. Please help. They’re gonna kill my mom. No police or she dies. Everyone dies. I know you’re FBI. Don’t kill mom.]
A link was attached to the text chat. Periscope. GoPro tech. Saga opened the video. It took a second to buffer. Internet was not great out here. After a minute, he finally could access the video. It was live.
Saga saw an image of a woman in her house. She looked awful. Then Saga saw the barrel of a gun. This was no joke. Murder was afoot. Another text rolled in.
[Location_ Pin_Drop]
Saga immediately called the ATF back. “Orders are go. Orders are GO GO GO.” He hung up the phone and put in the coordinates for Location_ Pin_Drop.
Saga turned his car into a bullet, and shot himself straight to Portland, Oregon.