“Ghost guns,” Peter said. “No serial numbers, totally untraceable.”
“You got it. Worth serious scratch, if you don’t end up getting killed by your customers. So these guys play rough, they don’t like outsiders, and they paranoid as hell.”
“You don’t know anyone else out here?”
Lewis snorted. “Jarhead, these mountains are full of wingnut groups. You got your race-war militias and eco-anarchist collectives and everything in between, and they all armed to the teeth. Even the damn hippies got AR-15s. And every last one of ’em thinks the moon landing was faked and the president’s an alien. But I’ve known Nickels and his brother since the Army, and far as I can tell, all they care about is money, and we got plenty of that. Not to mention, we ain’t got time to make new friends.”
“We’re just going to knock on their door?”
“I messaged ’em from the plane. Nickels said they might part with a few things if the price was right. They call him Nickels because he carries a roll of coins in his pocket, always ready for a fight. And he never did like me much, anyway. You best keep that .357 ready.”
“Did you forget we only have the one pistol? What are you going to use?”
Lewis smiled brightly. “I’m gonna give them the Denzel Washington.”
“What the hell is the Denzel Washington?”
“Just follow my lead, Jarhead.”
The land opened up and yellow lamplight filtered through the evergreens ahead. The road came to a crest and they arrived at a clearing carved out of the trees. A two-story log home moldered beside a large sheet-metal pole barn. In the mud yard, three big Dodge Ram pickups stood high on knobby tires, gleaming in the rain.
“Tap the horn,” Lewis said. “Stay in the truck. Keep the engine running.”
28
Peter didn’t need to tap the horn. A man came around the side of the pole barn in a green M65 jacket with a long gun at his shoulder. He had skinny legs and blond hair showing under his bucket hat. The rifle had the distinctive curved magazine of an old-school Kalashnikov and a fat suppressor on the end of the barrel.
Lewis dropped his window and put his hands out. “Yo, Nickels. It’s Lewis.”
Nickels came closer, pale and squinting in the headlights. His voice was thin and high. “Let’s see the money. Or else turn that rig around and get the fuck out.”
Lewis gave him a wide smile. “My brutha. Put up that gun. I got the dough if you got the hardware. ’Less you dudes don’t want to get paid today?” Lewis was laying on the street thicker than butter on a biscuit. Maybe this was what he meant by the Denzel Washington.
“How much you got to spend?” The sleet melted on Nickels’s coatand ran down onto his pants, which from the darkening color were likely not waterproof.
“Enough,” Lewis said. “Can we at least talk someplace out of the damn rain? I’m getting wet, leaning out the window like this. Hell, you must be soaked to the bone.”
“You got the money on you?”
“Told you I did, man. Who you think you talkin’ to?” Lewis opened his door and stepped out, looking around. “I always did like this place you got up here. Room to breathe, right? None of those uppity city folk to bother you. Man, I got to get me a joint like this.”
If this was the Denzel, Nickels wasn’t buying it. The AK stayed steady. “Stop right the fuck there. Show me your hands. Who’s that driving?”
Lewis stopped and held his hands out from his body. Nickels was twenty feet away. “Nobody you need to know, man. A good dude, reliable. Keeps his mouth shut.” Lewis took a step toward him. “You know I paid you boys a lot of coin over the years. I ain’t looking for no bargain.” He took another step. “I need three long guns and three pistols, extra mags for all of ’em. Everything new, no history, no serial numbers.”
Nickels’s voice hardened. “Tell him to get out of the truck. Keep showing me those hands, both of you.”
“What’s the damn problem, Nickels?” Lewis took another step. “I told you, he’s cool. You gonna show me some inventory or what?”
“Get your pal out of the truck or I’ll shoot him where he sits.”
Peter didn’t like how this was playing out. Even from that distance and through the windshield, he could see something in the man’s face. He opened the door, laid the .357 on the door’s armrest, and showed his hands. “Don’t shoot. We just want to do a little business.”
Nickels turned the gun on Peter for a moment, then pivoted backto Lewis with his finger on the trigger. They were fifteen feet apart. “Now take your coat off, nice and slow. Then show me the money.”
“I ain’t taking it off, man. It’s raining.” Lewis sounded indignant. As he unzipped his jacket and held it open, he took another step closer. “I ain’t strapped. The cash is in my coat pocket.”
Nickels took three steps back, settling the rifle deeper into his shoulder and putting his eye to the iron sight. Maybe not such a dumb peckerwood. His voice sharpened. “Take out the money and put it on the hood of the truck. Any funny moves and I blow your fucking head off.”
