by Brian Cotton
Chapter .19
“Prick.”
Paxton’s taunt shook Kaspar away from his inner thoughts. A peek outside of the passenger side window revealed the reason behind it. An Agent was in the middle of beating an older gentlemen who looked to be around fifty. The Agent relented for a moment; the man tried to get up, but was met with a surprise riot stick to the face. As the van pulled forward, Kaspar could see the blood come out of the man’s mouth.
A pair of old hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that the knuckles turned white. Paxton wanted with everything in him to turn the van around and help the innocent out, but he stayed the course to Young’s place. He let out a sigh and rested his grip. He spit out the open window and, in his head at least, told the old man that he would be saved. Those people outside just needed to hold on…just a little bit longer.
“Asshole,” Kaspar said as he leaned back in his seat.
“Tell me about it,” Paxton agreed and wiped his lips with his free hand. “We are the cause of that.”
“We are?”
“That’s right, kid. In an effort to ‘protect and serve’ the USR has given its Agents full reign over the cities. Ha, back then, they used to talk about the police state like it was some kind of wacked conspiracy theory.”
“How did you…we…cause that beating?” Kaspar asked.
“We’ve been busy, reckless that Olyphant would say. They are trying to smoke us out and, in turn, they are getting restless.” Paxton smirked, “They just can’t get rid of us quick enough. There’s now a Resistance Unit in every major city across the country.”
“Is there a Committee in every city, too?”
“Most.”
“Are we the only rebel team here?” Kaspar asked.
“No. There are at least two others, The Committee tells me, but God knows how many there actually are.”
Kaspar rubbed his chin, “You ever get in contact with them?”
“No. We will never see or hear from any of them. They don’t know who we are, we don’t know who they are.”
“Smart plan,” Kaspar quipped.
“Yeah,” Paxton replied, “it is smart. One of us gets captured and, when the torture starts, we can’t give them any answers.”
“I see.”
“So, how does it feel?”
Kaspar looked puzzled, “How does what feel?”
“To be drafted into a war.”
“I feel the same, I guess.”
Paxton laughed, “That’ll change. Trust me on that, kid.”
“So, who is this Joe Young character we’re going to see?”
“Joe Young is our weapon’s dealer. He receives shipments from various gun runners, stolen weapons cache’s from the USR and overseas. He gives us a good deal on his inventory.”
“How do you get funded to buy from him?” Kaspar asked.
“The Committee funds us.”
“How does The Committee get funded?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“You said you’d provide me with answers.”
Paxton sighed, “The Committee’s hackers steal money from the USR. Not a whole lot, nothing that would be noticed to the blind eye.”
“How’s that?”
“The amounts they steal at a time are very small. But, of course, that builds up over time. We are almost there.”
The fake USR van took a sharp left and entered into a dank alleyway. Paxton applied the emergency brake then cut the engine off. Kaspar opened the passenger side door and hopped out of the van. Paxton reached behind him for two black duffel bags. He gripped them in his strong hands, and then got out of the van himself. The rain from the night before created puddles of water into the various pot holes in the unkempt blacktop. After Kaspar took a deep breath, he immediately regretted it. The smell of mildew sucker punched his nostrils. The sheer wickedness of the smell forced him to cough and look away.
“You’ll get used to that,” Paxton said. “I almost don’t smell it anymore.”
The old veteran led the way to a chipped wooden door, with remnants of green paint all around. Paxton reached up with his fist and banged on the door three times, took a moment, then banged four more times. Something inside barked with violence. Kaspar knew that on the inside was a really big dog.
The wooden door opened. In the doorway stood a middle aged Puerto Rican with a thick steel chain in his left hand. The chain led to the collar of a brown and white Pit Bull Terrier. Kaspar’s heart began to thump and the speed of which caused his head to go light. He tried to ignore it and got a good look at the guy in the doorway. He had a mean look on his mustached face, a shaved head, and the wife beater he wore revealed two arms covered in tattoos. They all ran together and it took a good, hard look to make out any of them. Save for one of a naked woman with large breasts on the left arm and the tip of a cross which ran down his chest.
One thing Kaspar knew for sure was that this man’s real name was not Joe Young.
“What’s up, homes?” Young called out. He nodded his head upward in a swift motion.
“Hi,” Kaspar said, his eyes focused on the dog. “Fine specimen.”
“Oh, this bitch? Name’s Daisy. She’s a mean fuck. What’s the matter, ese, you scared of dogs or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Hold on,” Young said.
The Puerto Rican walked back inside and dragged Daisy across the tiled floor in the kitchen. Young yelled inaudible words in Spanish and the sound of a loud dog cry filled the building. Kaspar almost felt sorry for the poor mutt…almost. The gun runner reappeared seconds later.
“Sorry ‘bout that, but she knows when Papi’s angry not to misbehave.” Young said. He turned his attention to Paxton. “S’up, John?”
“Joe,” Paxton said.
“So, who the hell is this?”
“Ryan. New guy.”
Young laughed along with Paxton. Paxton reached up to his gun dealer and grabbed his hand. Young pulled the old man in close and the two bumped their fists on each other’s back. Kaspar watched the whole thing in a state of confusion. Was this some kind of man love ritual? He looked around the alley. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that the three were being watched.
“Come on,” Young said. “Let’s get inside, no?”
Inside the small apartment was a shit hole. Clothes laid around everywhere, the trash can in the corner of the kitchen over flowed, and the pungent smell of marijuana filled Kaspar’s nostrils. The thick, heavy aroma of hash caused his eyes to water. He glanced over at a cracked window in the living room and saw where Young grew the plants. Kaspar coughed again.
“That’s the colonel’s secret herbs and spices,” Young said. He grabbed the joint behind his ear and lit up, “Care for a taste?”
“No,” Kaspar said in between coughs, “thank you.”
“You’re missing out, homes.”
Young took a hit on the joint and held the smoke in his lungs. He breathed out seconds later with a laugh. The sound of the dog barking up a storm from her cage in the kitchen caused Kaspar to think about the Doberman who harassed him every day on the way home from school. Poor dog got hit by a car one day, not that Kaspar or the owners gave a damn.
“You going to burn up all day or are you going to sell me some guns?” Paxton demanded.
“Chill out, man. I’m almost done.” Young replied, smoke escaped his mouth as he talked. He took one last hit and put the joint out. “Let’s go.”
“Grassy ass.” Paxton replied.
Kaspar followed the other two into the kitchen and saw his would be tormentor. She snarled and showed her menacing teeth, the hair on her back stood straight up. He could tell that Daisy wished the metal bars of the cage weren’t blocking her from her next kill. Young lifted his boot and kicked the front of the cage twice. The rattling sound of the metal caused Daisy to back down and stick her head underneath the tor
n quilt inside.
“Sorry again,” Young said.
“No need.” Kaspar replied.
Young reached to the wall and opened the skinny, red wooden door. Inside, the stair case was narrow, Young didn’t appear that he could fit through, but he managed to squeeze in. Kaspar grabbed at the hand rail and the piece of wood fell off. The gun runner stopped and looked up over Paxton’s shoulder.
“You messin’ up my place, bro?” Young demanded.
“No, this thing’s just a piece of shit.”
Young laughed, “I like you, homes.”
“Come on, Joe,” Paxton said. He gave a slight shove to Young’s back. “We haven’t got all day, you know.”
“All right, all right, seriously.”
Down in the basement sat rows of guns on metal racks. Everything from hand guns, assault rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns. It was the weapons cache at the hideout on steroids. Along the walls hung grenades with boxes of ammunition and fully loaded magazines laid on the shelves. Kaspar headed straight for the gun racks to get a look at Young’s product. Paxton started to fill one of the duffel bags full of ammunition.
“Pick out something nice.” Paxton said.
“Yeah,” Young said. “I’ve got lots and lots to choose from.”
“Where’d you get all this?” Kaspar wondered.
“I’ve got my connections. Don’t worry about it.”
Kaspar looked around at the large inventory of handguns on display. After several moments of searching, a pair of black handguns caught his eye. He wondered if this is what Mother meant by “a twinkle in her eye”. He couldn’t take his eyes off of them; they were unique from the others. Kaspar grabbed one and inspected the barrel, which read “Pietro Beretta-Gardone V.T.-Made in Italy”.
“Beretta 92,” Young said, a grin on his face as he walked over. “Nice choice, homes.”
“Why’s that?” Kaspar asked, his attention on the handgun, he moved it up and down to get a feel for the weight.
“They stopped producing those some years ago, it’s a classic. Not many left, actually, I just got those beauties in a few days ago. It’s a great character, so strong and elegant.”
“No shit.” Kaspar pulled the chamber back and pressed the chamber release, it slid forward in a nice, smooth motion. “I’ll take both.”
Young’s eyes widened, “Both? That’s some serious dinero.”
“You find something, kid?” Paxton asked, a full duffle bag slung over his right shoulder.
“Yeah,” Kaspar said. He picked up both pieces and stared at them. “I think I did.”
“Beretta 92? How come you didn’t tell me you got some of those in?”
“I was gonna, but it looks like the cherry over here beat you to it.” Young replied.
“You seriously want both of them?”
“Yes,” Kaspar replied. “I’ll put it on your tab.”
“All right, let’s go then.”
Young walked over to his wooden counter. He flipped it open at the end and let the strong piece of wood slam down. He walked over to his laptop and started to punch some numbers into it. The amount owed showed up on a small, rectangular screen in blue indigo. Paxton chewed on his bottom lip as he looked over at Kaspar who already had feelings for his new toys. The old veteran reached in his pocket and handed over a plastic card to his dealer.
“You need a receipt?” Young asked.
“No. Let’s go, kid.”
Kaspar’s eyes remained fixated on the twin Berettas in both palms. These would be it, he thought to himself. These would be his tools of vengeance. It took another yell from Paxton to break the spell the weapons put on him. He placed the Berettas in the duffle bag by his feet and slung it over his shoulder.
He walked up the stairs with a renewed sense of hope.