Blake Crouch - Birds of Prey

“I don’t recall inviting you into this conversation, officer.”

The large man smiled. Jav noticed the tag on his dress blues read FULLER.

“Just offering my two cents. A plastic pop bottle and some duct tape can do wonders for suppressing a pistol. Not as nice as a custom, but it works in a pinch.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Javier gave the pig his back, but Officer Fuller didn’t take the hint. He leaned down close and whispered in Jav’s ear. “Look, I’m kind of hurting right now, if you know what I mean. Headache from motherfucking hell. Can you sell me something?”

Jav glanced back, his face screwed up in bewilderment. “Are you fucking with me?”

“I have money,” Fuller said. “I just need a little something to take the edge off.”

Javier considered gutting the pig right there. Then he looked around for cameras to see if this was some kind of Ashton Kutcher Punk’d bullshit. “I don’t know which should offend me more. That you think I’m stupid enough to sell drugs to a cop, or that you think just because I’m Hispanic, I must be carrying something.”

Javier stared at the pig, hard. He saw amusement, and nothing else.

“My mistake then,” Fuller said. “You have a nice day.”

Then he backed off, blending into the crowd.

“You fucking believe that?” Jav asked the vendor.

The vendor smiled slyly. “Cops are some of my best customers. You still interested in a suppressor?”

“Did I say I changed my fucking mind?”

“I could perhaps slip a custom Gemtech into the package, along with a magazine extension. That’d be twelve hundred. Plus two hundred for the BATF license.”

“I really hate to fill out paperwork…” Javier let the sentence hang in the air.

“I hate paperwork, too. But the law requires it.”

“Fuck the law. Fourteen hundred to box it up,” Jav said. “I’ll be back in a half hour.”

“I only take cash.”

“Of course you do.” Jav threaded his way through the crowd. It was stuffy under the tent and the reek of rancid sweat and body odor was stifling.

He pushed past three men in army fatigues who he felt more than certain hadn’t spent a single day in the Service. He made eye contact with one of them.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, brown boy?”

Javier stopped and faced the man. “Hello, Swanson.”

He saw a tremor of confusion fluttering through the man’s eyes.

“How do you know my name?”

“It’s printed on your G.I. Joe jacket, asshole.”

Jav let his shoulder bump hard into Swanson’s as he pushed on through the crowd, forcing himself to ignore the stream of threats and slurs the man hurled after him. Why did this always happen? People talking shit and throwing down challenges when he couldn’t accept because he had a package to deliver. Even three years ago, he’d have crushed the man’s balls in his palm like a couple of Swedish meatballs and beat him to within an inch of his life. But his mentor in the Alphas had taught him a few things since then. About patience and wisdom. About not being reckless. The hot-heads who couldn’t control themselves wound up dead or in prison before thirty-five, and that was not going to be him, because at the end of the day, he loved playing golf too much.

He had to piss something fierce.

Javier moved past a table selling knives, and he browsed for a moment, giving serious thought to purchasing the custom Crawford Tanto folder, but the dealer, some guy named Morrell, wanted a grand for it, and he wouldn’t budge on the price.

So he moved on toward the exit.

Passed tables of hunting equipment, fishing gear, army surplus, gun safes, pre-1900 Colt Revolvers, and table after table of guns specific to every major war of the last century.

He stepped outside.

Mid-afternoon, and a cold and sunny winter day.

It felt wonderful to be out of the stuffy accumulation of body heat under the tent.

A row of blue Porta-Johns stood at the far end of the parking lot. Must’ve been twenty or thirty of them, and there were lines five and ten deep to each one.

He’d let his bladder rupture before he stooped to relieving himself in the same cramped space where countless rednecks had pissed and shit.

Fuck that in the ass.

Hmm.

His eyes fell upon the building adjacent to the parking lot—Porter’s Guns and Ammo.

He could drop in, buy some .45 ACP hollowpoints for his new toy, and if he was lucky, use a nice, private restroom.

Luther Kite

He’d spent the last month in an urban ghost town. After what had happened in Ocracoke a mere seven weeks ago, and the catastrophic loss and pain he’d endured, it had been good to immerse himself completely in a new project.

Now, he’d ventured out into the world again, though only for a short while, having driven several hours south out of Michigan to this gun show he’d heard advertised incessantly on talk radio over the past few weeks.

He’d just purchased two Spyderco Harpys from a Montana knife dealer—a comfort purchase, no question—when Table # 81 caught his eye.

Luther wandered over.

The dealer was a four hundred pound bald man with a handle-bar mustache who eyed Luther but made no move to heave himself off his stool. He wore a leather Harley-Davidson vest that appeared to have spent considerable hours getting baked in direct sun. He wondered if they made motorcycles that could accommodate the punishing weight of such a man.

“Is this a good system?” Luther asked.

“Top of the line.”

Luther lifted one of the surveillance cameras.

“What exactly am I holding here?”

The dealer grunted as he slid himself off the stool and waddled over to the table.

“That 4CSBN160 system comes with four CANTEK CA-IR420 nightvision cameras, one NUVICO EVL-405N 4 Channel 500 GB DVR, four hundred-foot rolls of combined power/video cable, and all the necessary connectors to get the system up and running.”

Luther turned the camera slowly in his hand. He’d never been good with electronics, and didn’t understand the alphabet soup the man was spouting, but that didn’t matter. The IT guy he’d “hired” last week could certainly figure it out.

“I need twelve cameras,” Luther said finally.

The dealer smiled. “Tell you what, you buy three complete systems, I’ll throw in a PRO700E Minuteman.”

“What’s that?”

“Surge protector and battery backup. You’ll want it.”

Luther didn’t even have to consider it. “That’s a deal. You’ll box everything up?”

“Sure will. Just give me about forty-five minutes.”

As Luther turned away from the table, he could have sworn he heard someone call his name.

He started walking.

“Luther!”

For a moment, he debated just walking on, pushing his way through the crowd, getting the fuck out of there. Could Andy or Violet or some other law enforcement contingency have found him?

“Luther!”

But curiosity won out, so he turned—still ready to bolt—for one quick glance over his shoulder through the crowd.

No.

Couldn’t be.

Luther had never been glad to see anyone in his life, but he actually felt neutral in this moment, to set eyes upon this man he hadn’t seen in over eight years.

Luther pushed his way through the horde of Red-staters and even managed to break the slightest grin. It had been a tough month, and it was good to see a friend.

“How are you, Charles?”

Charles Kork looked a lot like he did when they’d first met—thin, dark, and dangerous. With him was a tall blonde so painfully beautiful Luther couldn’t look her in the face.

The men shook hands, and with a grin and a nod, Charles said, “Luther, this is my sister, Alex. I’ve told her all about you. Alex, you remember the crow story?”