Birds of Prey (v5.0) by Jack Kilborn; Blake Crouch

Author:Jack Kilborn; Blake Crouch
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-10-02T00:36:08+00:00

Javier

The man browsing next to him at Table #137 handed six hundred-dollar bills to the gun dealer, who took the money, shook his hand, and said, “Kiernan it was great to meet you. You’re gonna love the Nineteen. Best all-around weapon Glock makes.”

“I can’t wait to shoot it.”

Jav studied Kiernan out of the corner of his eye, found it oddly amusing that with his black hair and strong, chiseled features, the man resembled a gringo version of himself.

The dealer slid the plastic gun case into a bag and handed it across the table.

“Hope to see you again.”

“You have a nice selection of Glocks,” Javier said to the dealer when Kiernan had left, running his finger over the surfaces of the pistols, each resting on a plastic case, a thin, metal cord running through all the trigger guards to prevent theft.

“It’s all I carry.”

Jav smiled. “It’s all I shoot.”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Yeah, but I’m not seeing it here. It’s the Glock 36. Slimline is the trademark I believe.”

The vendor smiled. He looked like the antithesis of every other dealer Javier had laid eyes on today. He was fit, or at least within a hundred pounds of his ideal body weight. No facial hair. And he wore a Spandex biking suit that had been autographed over the crotch by Lance Armstrong. He’d put an exclamation point on the ensemble with a handsome Swastika button pinned to his collar.

The vendor said, “Oh, a connoisseur. I don’t display everything.” He ducked down behind the table and reemerged again with another black, plastic case.

He opened it.

Jav looked in, smiled. Would’ve been like seeing his long lost friend, Emilio, again, if he hadn’t cut Emilio into four pieces and burned his traitorous ass into a pound of ash in a rusted-out oildrum. He’d mixed the ash into a gallon of lukewarm water and made Emilio’s widow drink it before he shot her between the eyes. “This…I’ve been looking for this.”

“Glock only started producing this model four years ago. It sold out early. Only one point one three inches in width. Secure grip design. Shoots a half dozen forty-five caliber ACP rounds.”

“You mean with the factory clip,” Javier said.

The vendor flashed an oblique grin. “Yes, a factory clip.”

“But you have non-factory clips.”

“I could probably scrounge one up.”

“May I?” Jav gestured to the firearm.

The spandexed bicycle-Nazi-gun freak said, “By all means.”

It took Javier approximately five seconds to field-strip the weapon. He checked the spring, sited down the barrel, and gave it a quick sniff for gun oil. Everything looked perfect.

Javier hadn’t heard the man move up behind him. Just sensed him and turned suddenly and there he was—good-looking black man, roughly his age, smiling at him through a pair of coffee-brown eyes.

“Well done, soldier.”

“What makes you think I’m a soldier?” Jav asked.

“Because it takes one to know one. Reassemble it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Put the Glock back together.”

“Why?”

“Because I can do it faster.”

Jav smiled, felt a spurt of adrenaline rush through him. This guy was pushing him into a game.

“You believe that you can beat five seconds.

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