From: | Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk |
---|---|
Subject: | Safe House |
Date: | Tue, 9 Nov 1999 23:03:29 +0000 |
CC: FBI Operational Archive
>>>>>[+++++begin recording
I've been twiddling my thumbs for too long when the call comes in. A voice
I don't know, inviting me to an address I've never heard of.
>From the outside, it looks like a small office building or a big house. A
small sign says it's "MacroTronix Design Services", and inside the fence
there's parking for several vehicles: a blood-red Dynamit convertible and a
newish Chevy Cobra are two of the parked vehicles, along with a beat-up
old Army-surplus utility truck and a couple of motorbikes.
The door is locked. It opens a few moments after I buzz: 'Marlowe',
Andrew Kryzdanovich, Julianne's husband. "Come on in, Tom." he greets
me. "Want coffee?"
The place smells... cold and damp and musty, with new overlays of
catalytic heaters and people and coffee and cigarette smoke and thirty-
weight oil and Break-Free gun lube.
It feels like it had sat empty for a long time, and only just been brought
back to life.
"Safehouse." I say. I know what places like this are, even if this is the first
time I've been in one.
"Think so. Quinn knows more than I do about it." the PI replies.
"Quinn? Who's he?"
"_She_." Marlowe chuckles and pushes a door open. "Among other things,
she's our armourer at the moment."
I boggle. Not at the blonde woman sitting cross-legged on the floor,
listening to some loud music from a boom-box, but at the array of
firepower laid out around her.
A couple of Franchi SPAS-22s. Civilian, semi-auto only, but with ten-gauge
who really cares? Boxes of slug and #4 shot and full-bore-explosive ammo.
All three have been cut down, the barrels sawn down to the length of the
magazine. All have tactical flashlights, smartlink adapters, and one has a
folding stock instead of the civilian fixed version.
An Enfield AS-7, with four of those hideous drum magazines. Its stock has
been drilled and bored out... someone's adapted it to a _tripod_. I can't
help but wince at the idea.
At least a dozen pistols. Various types, various makes, all the same
calibre, next to boxes of cartridges, all functional and deadly and nasty.
Glocks, SIG-Sauers, Brownings, Colts, all chambered for the same calibre
but otherwise a lively variety.
Two Remington 950 rifles. Unfussy, unmodified, very new-looking, but a
great way to reach out and touch someone.
Two Marlin lever-action carbines. Boring and deadly. Big-bore bullets, long
barrels, ugly things to be shot by.
The blonde woman seems to be working on some assault rifles. Old M4A7
carbines, quite a few of them, in two piles: she's mating receivers from
one pile to trigger groups from another, apparently checking fit and
finish.
"Where did you get those?" I ask. Pistols, shotguns, bolt-action rifles, you
can finagle. Thank the Second Amendment for that.
But full-auto assault carbines?
She snaps her fingers at the stereo and the volume drops to a more
tolerable level. "Easily. Mismatched gun laws." Happy with the way one
hybrid weapon mates, she works the action a few times, sets it aside.
"Explain please?" I wish I knew what was going on around me. Asking
helps, sometimes.
She takes pity on me. "UCAS law controls the trigger group, right? Ares
make these R701s for old-timers who still think the M-16 was the best
rifle ever. Legal, very semi-auto-only, cheap. With me?"
"Sure." Her accent isn't entirely UCAS. I get a sad sinking feeling...
"But there's lots of old M4A4 and M4A7 carbines going surplus, and some
people like to collect weapons. Even in countries where you can't shoot
them. So, you deactivate them." She throws me the receiver of one
carbine: I catch it.
It's been screwed up big-time. The barrel's been plugged and then filled
with molten metal, the bolt's been roughly welded into its carrier and the
bolt-face and firing pin ground off. I'd guess that, inside the handguard,
the gas tube's been cut away and the barrel sawn, too. This receiver is
_ruined_ for all time.
What about the trigger group?
She reads my face, laughs, and begins assembling another of the M4s.
"_These_ are legal, legitimate, single-shot-only weapons. The trigger can
only fire semi-auto, the magazine well can only accept Ares' five-round
magazine. Fixing it to be a proper assault rifle's half-a-day's work and
some specialist and scarce parts. 'Course, the barrel and receiver are
fine..." Quinn throws the trigger group away to join three others. "But
_these_ weapons are legally deactivated by UK law, even though the
trigger group hasn't been touched."
"It can't be that easy." I shake my head.
"No, it isn't, that's how come there's half-an-hour's work in fixing and
fitting and adjusting per rifle." She goes to work on some obscure part of
the mechanism with a needle file. "But it gets us some seriously nasty
firewpower, legally and cheaply and without any traces that Malone can
trace. Three down, three to go, armoury complete by bedtime."
"How about the Federal Government?"
"We _are_ the Feds, aren't we?" Quinn asks, switching the needle file for a
tiny cordless drill. "Someone notices all these purchases, they notify the
SAC, who is you, so who cares?" The drill makes a mosquito whine as she
drills into the receiver's metalwork. "And the deact weapons, and the
Enfield magazines, and the other UCAS-illegal stuff, came in to the British
Consulate in the dipomatic bag."
"You're kidding." Diplomatic bag?
"Am I smiling? Malone fucked with British Intelligence a while ago. They
have long memories and a long reach. They won't get overt... but we've
got some useful covert help from them."
I turn and move out of the doorway, as another blonde woman - this one
shorter, wearing biker leathers and a denim cutoff - limps into the room
and deposits an amazing load of ammunition. A thousand or two rounds,
at least. "Last but one, Quinn." she says in a Southern-accented voice.
"Thanks, Harley. Meet Special Agent Elliott. Elliott, this is Christine Harley
Davidson."
"Meetcha." the biker acknowledges. "He cool?"
"Yeah. At least, not too warm. Sort of clueless, but learning."
Gee, thanks, Quinn. But I guess I deserve it. Harley turns to leave, with a
squeak of metal: one leg's supported in a brace-type gizmo, I notice as
she goes to get the last pallet of ammo.
I look again at the arsenal. We could fight a war with this lot.
A chill runs down my back as I realise, that's exactly what we're proposing
to do.
I thought I knew what I was getting into.
I didn't think I'd be so scared.]<<<<<
-- SAC Tom Malone <23:02:35/11-09-60>
+++++end diary]<<<<<
-- Tom Elliott <11:03:24/10-12-60>