“Leave the guns on the table and come to the front door.” Mike said over the phone.
“You’re gonna kill me.” Tanner said eyes on the red dot.
“Not if you leave the guns at the table. I promise. Which one of us has lied thus far?”
“Fair point.” She said, slowly walking to the door and stepping outside as something swooped behind her and into the house. She turned to see Mike casually sitting down at the table, taking out Rachel, emptying the magazines as he cracked open a can of soda and smiled, holding up a little flashlight laser and placing it on the table.
“Sit down tanner.” He said in an oddly friendly manner.
“Are you gonna kill me?”
“No…why would I kill you. I like you. You work for me. You do mostly good work, except that minor body armor mistake. They happen, unfortunately. And we adapt.”
“You know I’m working with the cops. You're gonna kill me, and I'm gonna go down stabbing.”
“No, you’re working with Detective baker, and you just stopped working with Detective baker. He's the one I have a problem with, not you. I feel like you may have just been fired, and he’s not going to harass you anymore.” he yawned, spinning the harmless laser pointer.
“Why? Why aren’t you killing me…or him. Or both?” she asked
“God didn’t tell me to. You’re only human, and neither of you have me in a situation where I have to kill you to save my life…yet. Detective Baker has still yet to run out of opportunities to try that mistake. Tanner, you didn’t know me, you were over a barrel and being threatened to cooperate by a loose cannon cop with theories and a reputation of going rogue. God told me I can trust you, he never said you’d trust me. He never said I could trust Baker. So…” he said, loading her snatchgun and sliding it to the other side of the table for her. “If God is wrong, shoot me, and I must have been crazy the entire time to believe it. I’m never going to kill you. If you sell me out and run away, I still won’t kill you. We’re partners, friends, and God thinks we work well together, so you better stop being so scared of me. One day you’ll be doing my job. Now be honest…was last night fun or what?” he smiled.
“Honestly, best fucking night I’ve had in a while. Second only to the 6 times I got to actually kill.”
“Worth the risk of getting killed for the rush of doing the right thing, and having faith in someone else that they got your back even when you’re unarmed and scared?”
“Yea. Had kind of a trust-fall bonding thing to it.”
“You trust me now?” he asked.
“I do. You trust me enough to tell me how you made the Lakeshot?” she asked. He just chuckled, enjoying his drink.
“You just passed the test. I’m proud of you. I needed Detective Baker to make an ass out of himself so he’d be off the case. I knew you were an informant the whole time. We’re about to do something really stupid that requires faith and trust because if I’m wrong, we’re both gonna die. If I’m right, we’re about to make our mark on history, and either way there’s gonna be some killing and some moments of doubt.”
“Preacher, I’m a believer now and ready to do God's work and dumb shit. Just curious, DID you take a vow of celibacy?”
“No, and don’t even go there. Work comes before fun.”
“And apparently it’s the only thing that gets to.”
“This is going to be way more dangerous than anything we’ve ever done before.” Mike said, looking at the computer and the blueprints for the address he was given.
“Um, yea. It’s called graduating to the big time.” Tanner clapped.
“It’s dangerous as hell. This isn’t a quick few shots and clear out, this isn’t bag and dissect one guy, this is practically a Swat raid done by two untrained people with a few guns."
“I assumed you had like a big wall that spins around and is covered in special weapons. Like the one you made a mile kill with.” She implied.
“According to police records, roughly 2700 yards. With a jacketed tungsten carbide bullet”
“Holy shit, 2700 yards? Maybe you are on divine mode. The hell even is a tungsten carbide bullet?”
“I’m actually proud of that one. The lake had too high security to get into the property, I use Gwen for ranged kills. I like to keep the police confused. You know the difference between a 50BMG round fired from a mile and a half and a 50BMG bullet light loaded down to 25 percent power at 200 yards? Because they don’t either. Once that leaves the gun, it’s just a bullet with a specific weight and velocity. Bullets slow down and drop. The trick is to get high enough to match the arc angle, while not getting caught by setting off a cannon over a lake. Gwen can fire a 50 caliber round but not a full powered 50 BMG. That’s over 12,000 foot-pounds of muzzle energy. Takes a very big, very heavy gun. In a semi auto foldable carbine her size that would blow the barrel to pieces, but at 3,000 foot pounds, she runs fine. God told me to make a bullet out of tungsten carbide, and I listened to him. You know, you can just...buy tungsten carbide powder online? You know tungsten carbide is so heavy, an 1100 grain 50BMG round made of it, stays just below subsonic at 3,000 foot pounds of energy? The hardest part about quieting a gun is the crack it makes when the bullet goes supersonic, and even most handgun bullets do that. But a Thousand grain weight projectile takes a lot of power to get up that speed. You add the integral suppressors Gwen has, and the big pipe suppressor in the corner of the garage, well that’s a lot of lethal energy with a whisper of a shot. Nobody hears a thing. The only other way to shoot a full sized 50BMG and not wake everyone on the lake is to be over a mile away when you do it. I’m a pretty good shot, but I’m not THAT good of a shot. Would you even seriously consider that a 50-year-old preacher or plumber with no record of buying any long range rifle or ammo, no military training or marksman competitions could just pull a 20 grand military rifle out of his ass and nail a guy from 1.4 miles out? Nobody could do that, let alone little old me. Now can a 50-year-old man with a good rifle, a scope and an 18-inch suppressed barrel make a 200-yard shot? Sure. Easily. Too easy. Headshot easy. But how do you get in and out without being heard or anyone spotting the 5-foot-long sniper rifle?”
“No idea.”
“You don't bring one. Gwen fits under a baggy coat when you take her apart, stock folds or detaches, grip folds, swappable barrels from 9–18 inches screw right in with standard plumbing threads. An 18-inch barrel may not get you into a human skull at a thousand yards, but at 200, it’s very capable. You leave a clean wiped tree blind and a single 50BMG casing in line with that shot and 2500 yards out past your position, the day before…well, a very unfortunate accident. Nobody looks where you actually were when the shot was made.”
“Seems pretty complicated for one kill.” she squinted.
“Well, God has a flair for the brilliantly dramatic and well planned events, and I have a notebook by my bed stand for writing down my dreams. I journal everything, even the nightmares. Nothing gets the blood pumping better than dropping a demon on their lakefront porch in plain sight, except walking down the road with the murder weapon tucked under your arm. You wanna meet Gwen?” he asked.
“I’ve never been so incredibly gay for a gun in my life.” She gleamed.
Tanner stood looking confused, and a little disappointed, as he held up an Uzi sized weapon.
“Sooooooo. Where’s the big Gwen?” she asked.
“That’s it. That’s the prototype: my grandfather’s vision and my masterpiece. A 4 pound 15 inch long rifle made of steel and aluminum and some secret ingredients I came up with from a voice in my head.”
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
“You know, for some things, 15 inches and 4 pounds would be really exciting, but it’s a little underwhelming when we’re talking about your biggest rifle.”
“The portability is the point. Don’t underestimate her. She’s fed by a linear magazine that runs the length of the gun, like a p90 on steroids, instead of through the grip like an MP7 of similar size, so no bulky clip sticking out the bottom. Hollow handle means folding capable, no bulky magazine in front or behind the grip. The folding stock rides the top picatinny rail, so it can slide right off, just like the sights, quick change scopes, press one button and the barrel unscrews. The receiver uses the integral suppressors as both an air cushion and a recoil dampener, so the more power you put in her, the more that air pressure compensates. The reason that’s important is that Gwen is a 50 caliber without any inserts, and anything you want WITH inserts, so you can start with a 7mm light machine gun, fully automatic, and if you need a heavy hitter, toss out the insert and drop in a magazine of 50 cal, and she’s now a semi-auto elephant gun, or a shotgun, or a subsonic assault rifle in 50 blackout, dead quiet and capable of punching holes in an armored jeep. Small rifle, large pistol, SMG, just swap the magazines and turn a few knobs. She’s accurate well out past 400 yards, even with my old shaky shooting, hides under a heavy jacket, and the ballistics don’t match anything on the books, unless you want them to match something it’s not. She’s the MP7, if the MP7 didn’t suck and was made for steroid-fueled space marines.”
“I stand corrected. I am getting kinda horny for this gun all over again. What a little Glocktease she is. What other crazy guns do you have?”
“That’s about it, actually.” He nodded.
“You’re kidding right?” Tanner blinked.
“No. Most of my kills are done with Rachel at close range, When I need a long range gun or something in full auto, I take Gwen. I have a recently stolen MP5, the stolen Police Glock I’ve never used and the 22 over the fireplace. That’s it, aside from your…”
“Snatchgun.”
“Snatchgun.” He sighed.
“So no belt fed or mounted guns on one of the maintenance vehicles?”
“Nope.”
“Grenade launcher, sniper rifles.”
“I never make shots over 400 yards, where Gwen can handle. I’m old and, I have glasses for a reason. 400 yards is about my confident limit. 500 if I'm drinking, which I don't do anymore.”
“No AA12 behind the bed? No tank in a warehouse? No other guys to call in? Not even a few shotguns?”
“Gwen fires 50 cal shotgun rounds.”
“So basically what you’re saying is you have one awesome gun you can change like a transformer and I have an Mp5. Everything else is handguns and barrel sleeves, and clever reloading wizard shit?” she asked, half impressed and half disappointed.
“Correct.” He nodded.
“The Russian brothers. Molotov twins or whatever.”
“Rachel, loaded with AK rounds. Sniper rifle round in a pistol casing dropped into the barrel before loading the clip.”
“The gang shooting behind the night club.” She said bringing up the picture of the newspaper on the computer screen. “4 shooters suspected, rifleman on the roof, 3 guys down in the alley. Took out 8 gang members.
“All Rachel. Pre-loaded the barrel with a 300 blackout round, shot to the first man in the head from a dumpster, simulated a 100 yard roof shot, fully silenced, the rest of the clip in 7.65 parabellum with rifling matching a VZ61 scorpion machine gun, all subsonic. Those men didn’t know my position so they started firing and gave me a chance to move behind them, emptied the magazine into 2 of them, reloaded to a clip of 32ACP, subsonic, silenced, took down another other 4. Shot the last one with one of their dropped Uzis, and after they were all dead, I climbed a dumpster, swapped inserts to a 10mm with MP5 rifling like the rival gang preferred, put a few rounds in the bodies and scattered some brass casings in 4 different spots. Burned the inserts, appendix holstered Rachel, tossed the unscrewed suppressor parts in the trash as I walked away. Strolled back to the front of the club and joined the crowd of people gathering to see what happened. Police escorted all of us, me included, out of the crime scene.” he proudly beamed.
“I wanna know everything. Everything you’ve ever done, planned, jotted down as a possibility, every detail. I am just…fascinated and entranced.”
“Well listen carefully because taking notes is forbidden.” Said Mike. "Only I get to take notes, which are encrypted and vague."
“Cuz that’s how ya get caught?” she smirked. “Hey, Mister Lakeshot Magician. What if I start hearing the voice too?” she asked, getting suddenly serious.
“Maybe you will.” he smiled.
“What if I do and our voices disagree? What if I hear the voice, and tells me to do something yours tells you not to do? Do I have faith in you and your god or in mine?” she asked darkly, looking nervous.
“You’ve started hearing it already, haven’t you?” he asked. Her eyes welled up a little as she tried to play cool and fearless.
“Maybe. It’s…hard to understand it. It’s faint.” She said, sucking up her emotions.
“They won’t disagree if we’re both listening. Have faith in that.”
“But what if they do? What if one day they contradict? Do I trust you over god, or trust God over you?” she asked as he hugged her, letting her calm down and gather her wits.
“I’ll never hurt you or manipulate you, but I’m not perfect. I’m experienced and wise but human. The only question you need to ask is whether you are clear-headed and hearing the voice correctly. Don’t cloud your head with the booze and the junk. That’s how you get confused and hear things wrong. Always trust God over me, just question if you’re hearing him correctly or if you’re interpreting wrong. Some day you’ll be making those calls and your clarity and faith will be everything. So don’t ever distrust God over me, but if we disagree, question your clarity and faith. If that is sound and clear, then follow it. If the voice is hazy or cryptic, incomplete, you need to listen with a fresh mind and heart. If you are clear and sober, your mind open and receptive, and your heart pure, that voice won’t be iffy or up to interpretation. It will be bold, direct, and crystal clear. There won’t be any question what he’s saying; only whether or not you have the strength to do it. Right now you’re just inexperienced, full of doubt and drugs, which can muddle the mind.” He said, patting her back lightly.
“You really think so?” she asked. “But I like the drugs. I had a shitty life. Dealing with that sober is not fun. You really believe if I get my head clear and listen, that we won’t ever get conflicting orders and end up fighting over what to do? Because I’m worried that if I get clean, we may find out that we have different voices guiding us.” She asked.
“You’re just scared, or God has different orders for us because we have different roles to play in the same ultimate plan. I thought the same thing once, what if I get different orders and don’t know what to follow, and that’s why I got off the vodka. It leads to doubt, acting on feelings and ideas rather than clear instructions. The alcohol will clear out. It only has one purpose, and that is to numb the heart and let you make mistakes. Unless you intend to make one, there’s no reason to go back.”
Detective baker sat alone in the dark, papers strewn around the room and a glass of whiskey getting lighter by the minute, loaded gun on the table. The phone rang and the sigh he gave nearly set fire to the paper. He fumbled the phone, answering it reluctantly.
“Oh now you answer, asshole?” said a female voice.
“Gina, what do you want?”
“I want to talk, I want answers. You got suspended for assaulting a preacher over this conspiracy case you’re still obsessed with, you won't answer your phone, your texts. I was worried, now I’m just pissed off.” She replied.
“Well take the hint, Gina. I’m a mess, better left to rot.” He said as the knock on the door jolted him.
“Open the door. Now that I know that you're home, open the door.” She sighed, staggered to the door and unlocked it. She stepped in and locked it, looking disappointed in him. “What is this shit? Pity drinking? Is that gun loaded?”
“Of course it’s loaded, chambered, safety off. If anyone else answered the door, it would be cocked and pointed. ANYONE else.” He said darkly.
“Damien what is happening to you? You’re a good cop, you’re a great investigator, and you’re not like this.”
“I had the Lakeshot shooter in the room with me at the police station, Gina. It’s all real. There he was, and I had to let him walk, I had nothing to stand on and he had me by the balls. He got me suspended just to toy with me. Now what? Was that a warning to back off or a warning to get right with god before he takes me out? Do I take him out first or do I just…move on? Pretend like he never existed and arrest junkies and speeders, give teenagers parking tickets and speeding tickets, act like nothing is wrong?”
“The Lakeshot Shooter…the preacher you beat up?” she scoffed, looking like she was about to beat his ass for being so stupid.
“I didn’t touch him. He played me like a fiddle, like the devil himself in a Georgia soul game, just set me up and gently knocked me down with a warning.”
“Did he actually admit it to you? Did he say the words and confess to your face, or did he just screw with you, and you filled in the gaps?”
“He…said enough Gina. He killed a cop that night, and I had him in my car, my back turned, and this man is the same pro that took a man down on his porch when he thought he was safe, over a mile away from anything dangerous, covered in security and armed. Didn’t matter. He’s untouchable. My life may depend on whether I leave him alone or strike first.”
“Damien, don’t you dare strike anything anywhere. You are experiencing one of two things right now. A mental breakdown from over-obsessing over nothing and getting fucked over by one potential suspect that got under your skin and scared you, or you actually did poke the bear and piss off a pro. Either way you need to do nothing. Rest up, lay low. Stop…drinking. Start thinking. If that preacher is just a preacher, and you go after him or his friends, you’re the monster. If you’re wrong, you’re the villain. If you’re right, then you need to stay off his bad side and leave him and his people alone. You’re either in way over your head or you just drank yourself into the deep end of the crazy pool. What you do about it is the same solution. Let it go, move on, put it behind you. This is dangerous, either way. Dangerous to your mental health or your fucking life.”
“I disagree. If I’m crazy, then I deserve to be fired and probably locked up, and I’ll never know. If I’m right, then I feel like he’s going to come after me. I can't win if he makes the first move. I may not be able to in general, but not if he plays first. My only edge is if I jump the gun and get the drop. Gina help me.”
“The help you need isn’t me or in that bottle. You need to trust your damn heart, and right now it’s pumping 2.0 BVA blood through your brain. I know a group. It’s not just for religious people or junkies, it’s for people who need to get back on their game, so just take the help and use it how you need it. Call me when you’re Damien again.” She said placing down a card and leaving the room.
"AA meetings...East side Church of second chances. Seriously?" he sighed.