I take a moment to survey the area, searching for any signs of movement belonging to a guard on duty. Finding no one, I retrieve my bag and unzip it, revealing my choice of firearms. One thing’s for sure: being the heir to an arms trafficking empire lends itself to providing you the best shit when it comes to weapons.
The familiar shape and weight of my favored pistol keeps my hands steady. I insert the clip, and the routine check that follows is more muscle memory than conscious thought. After that I secure my holster and place the gun there. Then I reachfor another firearm that’s similar in power and accuracy. A pair of knives are secured to my ankles, hidden in my boots, in case I have to engage in close combat.
Always prepare for shit to go wrong, and you won’t get caught with your dick out when it does.
My target is called “The Broker,” known for his ability to arrange massive arms deals. This man has been orchestrating one for months, but without my father’s knowledge or approval. It’s a clandestine operation on a monumental scale, involving the exchange of high-caliber weaponry, possibly including unmanned aerial vehicles. My father loves technology infused weapons, but only if they’re under his command. If not, they’re a threat that must be eliminated.
I’m sure he’s thought of me in such terms more than once.
The Broker has managed to bring together rogue states and terrorist organizations as key players in this deal, offering them access to military capabilities previously out of their reach. This deal is a bold move that signifies a shift in loyalty and power. In the underworld of arms trafficking, structure and control is everything. If this man thinks he can dictate the terms and bypass my father’s power, then it’ll weaken his position.
This Broker is either stupidly brilliant or brilliantly stupid to challenge my father.
With my weapons in place, I exit the vehicle and secure my mask. The target doesn’t need to know my identity, just the identity of the one who sent me.
I make my way through the shadows, seamlessly blending in. My footsteps are muffed against the overgrown grassy floor, while I strain to pick up any noises, all my senses heightened by adrenaline. I inch closer to the side entrance, and the low murmur of masculine voices reaches me, a confirmation that my intel is solid.
A quick glance through the broken window reveals a vast space, a cathedral of industry. Rust clings to furnaces and cobwebs trail along the chains and hooks dangling lifelessly from the high ceiling. The air is thick with a metallic tang. Piles of scrap metal litter the ground, alongside tools and pieces of equipment, and possibly hazardous materials.
I head inside through a busted door, plastering myself to the wall while staying within the shadows provided by the machinery. In a control room stand three men, their heads bent over a table. Maps and documents are scattered across the wooden surface. The Broker jabs his finger on the papers, his scarred face twisting with a scowl. The two other men are of little consequence in this mission, but the guns on their hips make them important to my self-preservation.
I watch them through the grimy window, biding my time and refining my strategy. Three versus one basically guarantees a favorable outcome. Only when the number surpasses seven do I start to be concerned.
“Everything’s in place,” the Broker says. “The shipment will arrive by the Eastern dock.”
One of his men, a broad-shouldered guy with a beard, nods. “Security’s tight. We’ve paid off the right people, but there’s always a risk. What about the locals?”
The Broker waves a hand in dismissal. “Handled. They won’t interfere. Our focus is the delivery. Once it’s secure, we distribute as planned. This deal is bigger than anything we’ve done. It’s going to change everything.”
The other man, lean and squinty-eyed, cocks his head. “And the payment? It’s supposed to be a fuckton. How do you know we can trust these buyers?”
“The money’s the least of our worries.” The Broker straightens, a confident smile tilting his mouth. “They’redesperate for what we’re offering. Desperation makes for good business.”
With the element of surprise on my side, I step into the open doorway, both pistols raised. “Don’t fucking move.” My voice is steady, the command in my tone easily discernible behind my mask. “Toss your guns on the floor and kick them out of reach.”
The Broker and his guards reach for their weapons. Two of them remove the guns from their holsters or pockets and place them on the ground. The thicker bodyguard flicks his gaze to me a second before lifting his gun.
My warning shot echoes in the small space and my ears ring. I shake my head to clear it, my gaze never leaving the trio. The man groans and clutches his stomach, a red stain spreading quickly. His pistol clatters to the ground.
“Next time I’m aiming for your balls,” I say. “Now, let’s have a quick chat.”
“Who the fuck are you?” The Broker asks.
“Someone in need of information. Give it to me and live.” The lie flows easily from me. “If you refuse, then…” I shrug. “You get the idea.”
The Broker studies me as though trying to see past my mask. “What do you want to know?”
“The location of the exchange.”
The man scoffs. “After all these fucking months, you think I’m just going to hand it all over to some fucking stranger? You must be out of your mind.”
I nod. “Sometimes, I think that’s true.”
I shoot the broad-shouldered man again and he crumples to the floor. The remaining pair curse and jump back.
“Ah, ah,” I say, clicking my tongue. “That wasn’t very helpful. Let’s try this again. What’s the fucking location and time? And who’s the rep?”
The Broker’s lips thin. “Go fuck yourself.”
