The hiss of a gas burner and a deep orange glow illuminated the desert outside the glow of a big city. A U-Haul truck gleamed silver and white, as the trailer behind it held the strange furnace, roaring with hellfire and casting the silhouette of a man on the ground. The shadow covered most of a wooden box, filled with sand. The figure approached the furnace; his face now lit to reveal Michael Finn with a strangely satisfied look, as he moved the molten metal crucible to the sand mold and poured in the glowing liquid. His glasses glimmered like the pits of hell as he finished, waiting for it to cool down and shutting off the furnace.
Light footsteps approached, Tanner investigating his work.
“You and your fancy sacred metals.” She said almost sarcastically, but in a playful bite.
“Don’t be so impatient. This is one of yours. The last casting didn’t go well, I have a good feeling about this one.”
“Remind me why we bought cheap guns to begin with for way too much money, and now you’re remaking the plastic handles in some weird metal? We could have just bought good guns already made of metal.”
“Because we want the appearance of cheap guns, ones I can make better than anything we could buy, and without the paperwork and suspicion. These Keltec guns have 2 problems, one we can fix and one that becomes a benefit. They’re half plastic, and they’re both 22 magnums. I felt God telling me to buy these off old Frank, and now I realize why. I had a vision, and the math checks out. See these guns have a very badly designed failure point here, this knockout pin for disassembly. They’re necessary for cleaning and maintenance, but they’re anchored in the plastic frame, which means anything much more powerful than a 22 magnum would cause an…unwanted rapid disassembly during use. But the plastic frames come in 2 halves. Re-casting the plastic in my fancy metal you love so much, would allow the gun to have MUCH higher strength. With new springs and a thicker barrel, they will handle the new 7mm round I invented. I’m very confident of that."
“What’s so special about this round, that we can't just get a gun IN something close?” she asked, inquisitively and annoyed that she actually kinda cared about the technical shit now.
“Because there is no caliber this good. It’s perfect. The 7mm Apex. With the magnesium alloy all-propellant case, it should generate up to the power of a 357 magnum, or cycle with the power of a 9mm. BUT, as you can see here, these little rounds are the same diameter as a 22 magnum rim. No gun holds more ammo than a 22, and a 22 magnum is just a long 22 with more balls. Unfortunately, rimfire rounds are not reliable, and it’s not enough balls to compete with a 9mm, let alone a 357 magnum. The magnesium propellant shells use the same mercury fulminate primer as any reliable centerfire round, and the 7mm apex fits in a standard 22 magnum magazine, and with a modified barrel, bored out and thicker than the factory ones, will make this plastic 22 plinker an absolute beastly little gun. Hold that in your hand.” He said, handing her the tiny pistol.
“It’s actually kinda dainty, but damn it feel heavy enough to be a full-sized pistol.” she nodded.
“It’s meant to be concealable and strong, not light. Believe me with the kick it has, especially without the suppressor, in a plastic lightweight gun it would start to feel very snappy.” He said, prying the lightly golden pewter-colored casting from the sand. “And it holds 26 rounds in the gun with a flush mag. 34 if you use the extended mag."
“Holy shit!” Tanner exclaimed, “Okay, I’m seeing the overall idea now. Sorry, I had my doubts when I saw you sawing a plastic gun grip in half and using superglue and baking soda to stick it back together. That had me concerned.”
“Well Keltec doesn’t exactly make a compact version of the PMR30, which is stupid, so I had to shorten the grip and frame. The superglue and baking soda method just held the plastic together long enough to make a sand mold for casting it in metal. Trust me, there’s no superglue holding the final product together. Not with these rounds rocking 880 foot-pounds of energy. That will still kick a good bit even with the springs and the buffer, so use the suppressor any time you use the gun.”
“Then why does it even detach if it barely takes up any space and fits the holster?”
“Because it’s a red flag to have a suppressor you didn’t register with your ID and fingerprints. We may have fake ID, but I didn’t keep spare fingers. So the suppressor fits into the holster and stays there unless you push this tab down. If you ever get questioned, it’s a non-suppressed pistol with some legal custom mods, registered in my name. If you think you need to use the gun, push the tab, guns comes out with integral suppressor. I have 2 different kinds of ammo that through that suppressor should sound like snapping your fingers. I recommend the 228 grain Full Metal Jacket. Brass jacketed, tungsten powder filled, at about the power of a 40 Smith and Wesson that should blow open on impact and embed your victim with enough frangible metal to drop anyone that isn’t wearing body armor or full of coke and adrenaline.”
“Ooh, don’t mind of I do.” She said, delicately taking the tiny bullet and displaying it like a wine bottle, popping the imaginary cork and smelling it. “228 grain, that’s a really good year.” She whispered. “Pairs great with red meat and murder.” She joked. “So what happens if they ARE wearing armor?”
“Then you use the spare magazine, 44 grain steel core brass solid, 3,000 feet per second, and almost double the recoil. They will NOT be silent.”
“So discreet mistress for softies, and for hard targets, the screamer…got it.” she winked.
“It’s amazing how pornographic you can word something as mechanical as a bullet.”
“Trust me, you and bullets together gets pornographic for some of us anyway. And with this sexy little spacegun you made me in sparkly silver, it’s amazing I still have clothes on.” She gasped dramatically.
“You know, I honestly think when I die it’s not going to be from an enemy, it’s just gonna be a combination of my old heart, and a beautiful woman's sex drive.” he sighed.
“Is that complaining or bragging?”
“Definitely not the worst way to go, especially if you don’t fear death. I’ve actually had a dream about you murdering me, and with the enemies I’ve made and my line of work, to be honest if you did murder me, I don’t think I’d even be mad at you. I know you’d make it painless and quick.”
“Don’t even joke about that. If I ever kill you, it’s gonna be the heart attack during sex, and accidental, and you better not die on top of me.”
“Use the dolly for body disposal like I showed you. Lift with your knees.”
“Mike, for real... Just don’t die on me, please. We JUST got to Texas and started the new operation. This is basically the honeymoon. That’s some bullshit negativity. If you can handle 20 guys in a warehouse trying to kill you, you can handle one me, just trying to have fun and actively NOT trying to kill you.” She scolded.
The light “ding” of a door opening didn’t even make the heavy set store owner of Roofus Tex Guns and Ammo Depot look up from his screen, scrolling the newest toys and deals. He scratched his red beard and adjusted his cowboy hat to see who was dropping in so late.
“Closing up in 15 minutes, grab what you want quick or come back tomorrow.” Said the store owner, looking up at Mike and Tanner. “Never mind, we just closed early. Let me flip the sign.” He said, doing just that, and heading back to the counter, waving them behind it and to the back room.
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“Nice to see you, Roofus.” Mike smiled.
“Oh every time I see you it’s a mixed bag of emotions, Mike. You always have some weird shit to ask for, but you pay well and I still owe you. I feel like you’re gonna bring that up if I ever object to any requests.” he squinted.
“Absolutely, but I still pay well.” He smirked, laying down a wad of cash as Roofus unplugged the security camera and got out the case from under the counter.
“Exactly what you asked for, Keltec PMR, custom serial number, don’t wanna know why, but you can check it, additional custom high grade stainless barrel, that costs more than the gun and I won’t ask why either. Extra mags, 60 rounders, 32, and these custom 25 round short mags were a bitch to get. I had to have a guy 3d print them. You know they won’t fit the gun, right? They’re too short for the gun.”
“I am aware.” Mike nodded.
“Yea, enough said. Just confirming that before you buy em. Whatever floats your boat. I also got all the high capacity Glock mags you wanted, 9mm, 45ACP, 22. Didn’t take you for a Glock guy, honestly. You never bring one or even look at them. See you brought the MPX case, gonna do some target practice with the little lady?”
“That would be great, private as usual.” Mike half asked and half instructed.
“Mike, you do realize I can sell you ammo. You never buy ammo, and I can match any price you get online, but I gotta ask off the record. Are you testing silencers in there or something? Because half the time I can’t tell if you’re shooting, and half the time it sounds like you brought a cannon. I’ve never even seen a 45acp conversion kit for a Sig MPX until you had me order one, That is the LOUDEST damn 45 I have ever heard in my life, and then you reload, and it’s like you turned the volume knob down, sometimes to nothing. Now, I have never in my life had anyone bring their own bullet trap and reloads, let alone every time. I’m just letting ya know I can sell you new ammo or reloading FMJs for 45s dirt cheap. You don’t have to bring your lead home and bring your own ammo back to shoot.” He puzzled.
“Reloading is a hobby of mine. I have insomnia, keeps me busy, I like experimenting with getting the velocity JUST right. And it’s not a suppressor. It’s a recoil compensator. I know the stamp laws. If this was running a suppressor, why would it be LOUDER than normal? I run hot loads, i shoot all lead free copper, environmentally friendly, but they kick like hell and I got that bad shoulder. No laws saying I can’t design recoil compensators. For some reason, some of them just really make it louder. The quiet ones are tanners. They’re just a primer and plastic bullet for practice. Reuseable, no gunpowder. She doesn’t like shooting with ear protection, she prefers music when she shoots.” Mike lied complexly
“Whatever you say, Mike. I’m not making accusations, and I don’t give a shit what you do, I didn’t see or hear a damn thing, Suppressors are legal in Texas though. Hell anything made in Texas that stays in Texas is fair game. I got boxes of them and paperwork I could sell you right now, I just can’t report them missing or skip the paperwork. I’m trying to stay as legal as possible here. That’s all. And that serial number favor is a federal crime, so if you get caught carrying both those guns with the same serial number, it’s illegal as hell. Even half the legal mods you got are suspicious if the cops really looked into it.”
“So is killing someone, Roofus.” mike said coldly.
“Mike you don’t have to remind me. We don’t talk about that. We don’t talk about it, which is why I keep doing you these favors off the books and with some…missing paperwork." Roofus huffed.
“I’m just making sure YOU understand the legality of things. I’m not a cop anymore, not legally. Haven’t been for years, even before I moved. Private investigator work is legally gray even for former police, and I have to have a certain amount of discretion in my side business. You of all people understand discretion. Things happen, the laws are sketchy, and good people doing nothing wrong can go to jail if people talk. Relax, Roofus. I’m not saying shit, you’re not saying shit. Nobody is saying shit. I’m a handyman, who likes privacy and being safe, and you’re a salesman who needed a favor. That’s all.”
“I appreciate it, man. You just be safe. Lotta weirdos out there wouldn’t hesitate to get violent with a private investigator snoopin around their business. Kinda why I recommended getting the girl a little 9mm. 22 magnums just don’t cut it for self-defense, and ammo reliability is hit-and-miss, literally.”
“Why do you think I do my own reloads? Trust me. She’s safer than you think, even when I’m not around. Hell, she’s probably more dangerous than I am.” He chuckled, enjoying the irony that he may not be joking.
Tanner walked back to the shooter’s box after setting up the bullet catcher, admiring the new inventory.
“You still got him over a barrel?” she smirked.
“Perpetually.” Mike said, loading up the new magazines with his oddly fat 7mm silvery rounds.
“You’re never going to tell him are you?” she asked.
“Absolutely not. We needed connections and a gun store owner was top priority, he was the best for the position, so we did what was necessary, we schmoozed and visited a few times, we got chummy and became regulars, and when he needed to dispose of a body, we assisted.”
“So you don’t feel bad that you set up a random guy for a robbery just so he owes us favors? He killed a guy. Some of us are used to that, but Roofus isn’t exactly black-ops. Poor guy might have PTSD.” She shrugged.
“Anyone who knows us could have PTSD. He’s a gun fanatic, Texas born ultra-Conservative. You think he feels bad for shooting one illegal Mexican guy breaking into his store pointing a weapon? Especially when he happened to be a 45-year-old sex offender dating a 13-year-old girl?”
“So he really fell for the whole bit? Private investigator moves to town, ex-cop, buddies it up for 2 weeks and then suddenly some suspicious guy starts casing the place and wouldn’t you know it, Private Dick Mikey, is on the job for a friend. Guy tries to rob a GUN STORE while you happen to be investigating and in the indoor range?”
“He’s not the smartest guy, he’s just the right guy. He knows people, he has connections, we needed a reason for him to owe us something big, and we already had the perfect pervert to kill for it. We just had to give the guy a grand in cash and a gun that didn’t work, tell him the store owner was out of town and his daughter was working the shop, and we would split the robbery money and drive the getaway van if he did the job. The fact that a sex offender took a thousand dollars and a loaded gun he assumed was functional and loaded, in order to rob a lone 20-year-old with a stranger, was reason enough to kill him even if he didn’t glow in the thermals. Half these guns store owners are HOPING some asshole like that tries to rob them so they’d get to shoot someone. You wanted to kill him anyway.”
“I wanted to kill him in a fun way, not trick a store owner into killing him. I’m just saying it’s been a while, I wanna have some fun. Technically, the only one of us here who’s killed someone since we moved to Texas, is fucking Roofus.”
“Look, I’ll let you have some fun soon. I just wanted a body disposal site, a gun dealer on our side, knowingly or not, a safe and secure killroom for you, and some new gear so we don’t fit the old profiles. That’s all. I’m playing this smart and safe.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just…nobody even knows who we are or were, except Carl, who’s on the same team, even if I owe him a beatdown, and we got more dirt on him than he does us. I think we’re safe." she scoffed.
The Dimly candle-lit church had a different feel to it, as the chairs circled a table with a bowl in the middle. 15 pieces of folded paper sat in the bowl, 16 chairs around the table. Carl sat in the nicest one, peering out over his glasses at the surrounding group.
“Glad to see everyone made it here.” Carl nodded.
“You didn’t give us much choice.” Said a woman, tapping her foot nervously.
“Sure I did. I just informed you that I know who you are, and have enough evidence to get you all arrested. I didn’t say you were required to attend, I suggested attending. This is not blackmail, folks, nobody is getting arrested or ratted out. It’s an awakening, an opportunity, a brotherhood. This used to be a group of rogue killers run by one bitch that was bought and paid for by the top politicians in the state. Now, ding-dong the bitch is dead, I put a full metal jacket through her sinus cavity, and now I work for nobody but myself. If you wanna keep killing alone, go ahead, leave. I won’t stop you myself, but you’ll get caught eventually and have no backup, or some random victim with a vendetta will shoot you in the back some day. I couldn’t care less, as long as enough of you are smart enough to see the benefit of a team dynamic and having each other’s backs. I only need 8 people, beyond that is just bonus. So if anyone would like to tell me to fuck off, because you can take care of yourself, that’s fine. Leave now. If you stay, you’re one of us, and we start making our own rules.” He said as 6 people got up and left, heading to the exit and out the door.
“Excellent. Now the rest of you who are smart enough to stay, please take turns drawing a name from the bowl. Everyone’s name is in there, including those who just left. Say the name outloud, and if your name is called, stand up, next person draws a name. If nobody stands up, you have a name of someone who walked away, and your first assignment is to go into the parking lot, follow them home, and kill them. I have guns under the table if needed. This organization starts with a bang and ends with no witnesses, let’s see who can hang with the big boys.”
“What if I just…refuse?” asked one of the cocky young men. Carl drew his Skorpion 9mm and put a round in his forehead.
“I always have to lead the damn revolution, don’t I? You all know too much about too many people if you showed up tonight, so you’re either an ally or a problem. Choose wisely, draw a fucking name. Whoever impresses me most gets to go on a little adventure with me. I got a hunt that needs backup. You’re all hunters. The most dangerous animal I know is out there and ready to be taken down.” Carl sighed.
“What are we hunting?” smirked one of the thugs.
“A Holyman.” He said darkly.