Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“All right, Starr, let’s talk. What is it that you’re looking for here?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I leaned back, looking as casual as possible. Like everything wasn’t riding on the next ten minutes of my life.
“I’m going to shoot straight with you, Richie. I have a warehouse full of weapons. They’ve been sitting for months in need of a new home. I won’t bore you with too many details, but it’s enough shit to equip a small African nation. The problem is that my original customer was killed by a drone strike that was intended for the opposition and not my guy. Fuckin’ mess. In any case, the whole thing leaves me in a bad position. I'm stuck with a bunch of weapons I don't need. All of my assets are tied up in this horseshit, and I need a new customer. Someone who can move this product quietly here in the States and replenish my bank account.”
Richie leveled me with a stone-cold stare that would probably make a lesser man shit his pants. “I’m only going to ask you this one time, Starr. Are you working with the fuckin’ feds? Cause this reeks like a setup. You got snipers and SWAT out front, waiting to bust my ass the minute I shake on this deal?”
I chuckled, thankful I wasn’t holding my glass, as the bourbon inside would have gone swirling with the shaking of my hand. “Not anymore.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Richie fired back, not letting up.
“Like I said, I’ll shoot straight with you. I’m an ex-Navy SEAL. I got burned out with politics getting in the way of doing my job. After the Navy, I did some contracting work with the CIA, but they’re even more fucked up than the military thugs. Anyway, I made a few contacts along the way, and one of them made me a tempting offer. So now I’m left holding the bag, and I need to liquidate these items quickly and quietly.”
Talking to a man like Richie was like a carefully choreographed dance. One misstep and the entire thing looked sloppy, unpolished. And Richie was definitely the kind of man who required polish.
He took another slow drag from the butt of his cigar and then leaned over to drop it in the ashtray on the table next to my drink. “So, this is legit?”
I nodded. “You heard me right.” From the look in his eye, I’d piqued his interest.
Richie considered me for a moment. “All right, Starr. I’m a straight shooter too. I don’t fuck around. I'm also a careful man, and I don’t do business with people I don't know and trust. But I do enjoy a good story, and yours seems interesting, so please continue.”
I nodded. In truth, I knew Richie was a bad motherfucker. I knew he’d chopped off his cousin’s head two years ago when he flipped and started feeding the feds info on the family business. His Uncle Paul was the official head of the family, but he was taken down in a raid in Vegas due to that snitching. So Richie was the number two man—but he still ran the whole show.
Over the last two years, and for the rest of his natural life…plus thirty years, Uncle Paul had taken up residence in a Federal Max Security prison designed to make it impossible for him to pull strings on anything. And now, for all practical purposes, he was nonexistent.
“Like I said, Richie, I have a warehouse full of weapons. I've got 3000 AR-15 assault rifles, all fully automatic with every size clip and accessory you could dream of with enough rounds to take out everybody in California.”
I tossed down the last of my drink and continued, “I also have 12 dozen RPG launchers with enough grenades to blow up half of Manhattan. 2000 Glock 9's with oversized clips. Fuck, I even have a few dozen shoulder-fired rocket launchers that can shoot down a helicopter or take out a tank. Mr. Dalton, what I have is war power. What I don't seem to currently have is the whole war part.”
Richie rubbed a hand over his jaw again. He was usually clean-cut. The day and a half worth of stubble was clearly driving him crazy. After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll need to think about your…predicament a bit and talk to some people. No promises on whether or not I'll be able to help you. "
I grinned. “Understood.”
“Tomorrow night, here at the club. Like I told you before, we handle a lot of business here. Be here at ten-thirty. Bring me something to look at, and I'll hear you out.”
“I’ll be here,” I replied. I threw back the fresh bourbon that some half-naked bartender with fake tits had set down in front of me. No point in letting good shit like this get dumped down the drain.