Marco stared at the blank sheet of paper on his desk, pen hovering over the words he had scribbled across the top: Zandia, Europe. Gotham, Church of Blood.
He drew a line connecting Zandia to Europe. Then another from Europe to Gotham. Then he sat back, stared at the mess of arrows and circles for thirty seconds, and realized he had no idea what the fuck he was doing.
"This is useless," he muttered, tossing the pen onto the desk. It rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor. He did not bother picking it up.
The problem was simple: he was not smart enough for this kind of analysis. Edward could probably look at these words and deduce the cult's entire organizational structure, leadership hierarchy, and vacation schedule.
Marco, on the other hand, specialized in punching people until they started talking.
He reached for his jacket just as the phone on his desk began to ring.
He picked it up.
"Yeah?"
"Captain, there is a gentleman at the front desk asking for you." It was Rodriguez. "He says Chief McGinnis sent him."
Marco frowned. Bob had mentioned something earlier about a visitor, but he had not expected the guy to show up this fast.
"Got it. I will be right down."
He straightened his uniform and headed downstairs. His gaze swept over the crowd and landed on a figure who stood out like a priest at a biker bar.
The man looked to be in his early forties. He wore a khaki trench coat, and his hair was combed so precisely that it looked as though he had used a level. A mild, pleasant smile rested on his face. His hands were clasped neatly in front of him.
There was nothing about him that suggested business, and certainly nothing that hinted at organized crime. If anything, he looked like the sort of man who coached Little League on weekends.
Marco walked up to him. "I am Marco Vitale. You were looking for me?"
The man turned at the sound of his voice, and his smile became even warmer. He extended a hand, and Marco shook it.
"Captain Vitale. Pleasure to meet you. My name is Ian Fleming. Chief McGinnis should have mentioned I would be stopping by."
"He did." Marco studied Ian's face. "What can I do for you, Mr. Fleming?"
"Oh, I have worked with the chief before. He mentioned you had run into some difficulties recently and thought you might need specialized tools to handle them."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Specialized tools."
"That is correct." Ian gestured toward the exit. "I brought samples for you to evaluate. Unfortunately, they are too large to bring in. They are in the vehicles outside. Would you mind taking a look?"
Marco hesitated. Something about this felt off, but he could not put his finger on what. Ian seemed to notice his reluctance because his smile widened slightly.
"I promise this is all above board, Captain. The chief vouched for you personally. I would not be here otherwise."
"Yeah. Okay." Marco nodded slowly. "Let us take a look."
---
They walked out into the parking lot, and Marco immediately understood why Ian had not brought the stuff inside.
Five dark grey box trucks sat in a neat line near the precinct entrance.
"You planning to restock a military base?"
"Something like that. Shall we move them somewhere more discreet? I imagine this setup is drawing some attention."
Marco pointed toward the ramp leading to the underground parking garage. "Take them down there. Less chance of someone asking questions."
Ian gestured to the drivers, and one by one, the five trucks rumbled down the ramp into the garage beneath the precinct.
Darnell must have heard them coming, because he wandered down the ramp a few minutes later, coffee in hand, looking half-asleep.
"What is going on?" he asked, squinting at the trucks. "We starting a moving company?"
"Get over here," Marco said. "Make yourself useful."
Darnell shrugged and shuffled over.
Ian walked to the first truck and nodded to the driver. The guy hopped out, walked around to the back, and yanked open the rear doors.
The interior had been custom-modified. Metal racks lined the walls, secured with heavy-duty straps and foam padding. And filling every available inch of space were rows of dark green and sand-colored metal cases and long wooden crates, all stacked with military precision.
Darnell stared. His coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. "What the hell did you bring?"
Ian's smile widened. "Where would you like me to start?"
"From the beginning."
---
The first long crate was brought out, and Ian pried it open with a crowbar. Inside, several G36C assault rifles rested in fitted foam. Their black polymer frames were unblemished, the tactical rails and optics mounts untouched. They looked as though they had just left the factory.
Ian lifted one out and checked the action before handing it to Marco.
"Squad leader configuration. Quick-detach suppressor, Picatinny rail system, AN/PEQ-2 laser designator, M68 red dot sight, weapon-mounted tactical light. You get excellent sustained fire capability combined with area lethality."
He gestured to the crate. "These also come with HK GLM underbarrel grenade launchers if you need the extra punch."
Marco held the rifle.
"Where did you get these?"
"Trade secret," Ian said with a wink. He moved to another crate. "Let us continue, shall we?"
The lid came off to reveal a row of M4A1 carbines.
"These are for deputy squad leaders or team leaders. They are lighter and easier to handle in close quarters."
He stepped aside and opened a long, narrow case. Inside, resting in black foam, lay a single SR-25 designated marksman rifle fitted with a high-magnification optic.
"Seven hundred meters," he said quietly. "That is your effective range for eliminating any visible threat. You will want at least one of these in your squad."
Darnell set his coffee down on the hood of the truck. "Captain. What the fuck is going on?"
"I have no idea," Marco admitted.
Ian moved to the next crate. Ian needed both the driver and Darnell to help lift it down. When they pried it open, everyone took an instinctive step back.
Two M249 SAW light machine guns lay inside, belt-fed, with 200-round soft ammo pouches already attached.
"Automatic rifleman," Ian said, patting the cold metal. "This is the backbone of your suppressive fire. Pin the enemy down. Cover your assault elements. It is an excellent platform."
"This is insane," Darnell said. He was not smiling anymore. "Where are we supposed to use this stuff? Afghanistan?"
"Gotham," Marco said flatly.
The next truck held something even heavier. Four men had to work together just to slide the crate onto the ground. When Ian pried it open, an HK GMG automatic grenade launcher rested inside, already mounted on a tripod. Several boxes of 40x53mm high-velocity grenades were secured beside it, each one neatly labeled.
"Grenadier position. It is highly effective against clustered targets or fortified positions. You could clear a room, a building, or even an entire city block if necessary."
"Jesus Christ," Darnell whispered. "Are we going to war?"
Then they opened the last crate on the third truck, and Darnell actually laughed.
"No fucking way."
Inside lay a Javelin anti-tank missile system. The launcher, guidance unit, and two missiles were packed neatly in fitted foam.
"This is a joke." He shook his head. "This has to be a joke. Tell me this is a joke."
Ian smiled. "The Javelin is a highly versatile system. Fire-and-forget capability, top-attack trajectory, effective against armored vehicles and hardened structures. In an urban environment, it provides unmatched long-range precision strike capability."
"We are cops," Darnell said slowly. "We are not the fucking Marines."
"Gotham is a special case," Ian replied with a smile.
The remaining crates held more specialized gear: Remington 870 breaching shotguns, blocks of C4 plastic explosive, det cord, stun grenades, smoke grenades, and fragmentation grenades. Every weapon had matching ammo crates, spare parts, cleaning kits, and maintenance tools. There were also ballistic helmets, level IV body armor plates, tactical vests with MOLLE webbing, Bluetooth-enabled hearing protection, night vision goggles, and comms gear.
Marco walked over to an open crate and picked up a pair of electronic earmuffs. He slipped them on, and the world went silent. He pulled them off and picked up a tactical vest instead, weighing it in his hands. The ballistic plates inside were heavy.
"These are the samples the chief arranged for us?"
"Correct." Ian nodded. "The chief specifically asked me to provide samples comprehensive enough for a full evaluation. Given Gotham's current and projected security threats, he believes standard police equipment may no longer be sufficient. What you are seeing here is a complete loadout for a standard twelve-man military squad. I was unable to include drone support or integrated Land Warrior communication systems. Export restrictions on those platforms are extremely tight at the moment. You will need to rely on your existing precinct infrastructure for coordination."
A faint smile appeared on his face.
"However, as compensation..."
Ian walked to the last truck and signaled for the driver to open four additional crates.
Darnell nearly spit out his coffee. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Inside the crates were four M2 Browning heavy machine guns.
Ian clasped his hands behind his back. "Now the loadout is complete."
"Who is supposed to carry those?" Darnell demanded, pointing at the M2s. "Are we going to strap them to our backs and run around like Rambo?"
"They are crew-served weapons," Ian said patiently. "You mount them on vehicles or fixed positions. They provide exceptional suppressive fire and anti-materiel capability."
Marco walked over to one of the crates and ran his hand along the cold steel of the Browning. It was a monster. It was enormous, well over forty kilograms. You could punch holes through engine blocks with this thing.
"Let me ask you something. What does a full package like this usually cost?"
"Of course." Ian smiled. "The chief mentioned you were one of us, so I will be transparent. The market value for a setup of this scale typically falls between five and seven hundred thousand dollars. However, working with the chief... The final quote stands at approximately one point three five million."
Marco blinked. "He is marking it up?"
"Operational costs," Ian said. "Logistics. Risk mitigation. You understand."
Marco could not stop himself from laughing. Of course Bob was taking his cut. Some things never changed.
"So are these things even legal?"
Ian's smile grew deeper.
"Captain Vitale, for one point three five million dollars? I will make them legal."
---
---
60 Advance Chapters!
Visit my profile page for more information.