The Crisis Vector (A Mitch Herron thriller) by Steve P. Vincent

Author:Steve P. Vincent [Vincent, Steve P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Steve P. Vincent

He must have fallen asleep, because he woke with a start sometime later to find Bradshaw still at the wheel, but Reeve and Burgess snoring in the back. The afternoon sunshine had been replaced by the pitch black of night, the car’s headlights the only thing brightening the road ahead as they chewed up the miles.

“Any trouble?” Herron asked.

“Nothing. You fell asleep. They fell asleep. I drove. Not much to report.”

“Okay. Where are we?”

“Just outside Rockford, Illinois.”

“We need to make a detour…”

As Herron explained his plan, Bradshaw smiled, then took them off the interstate. They were headed into Chicago, where Herron hoped to find another key thing they needed to get Burgess to D.C., arriving at an out-of-the-way industrial area just as Burgess stirred in the back.

“Does someone want to tell me where the hell we are?” the old man snapped, rubbing his eyes. “You’re meant to be taking me to the meeting…”

“We are,” Herron said. “But we need an insurance policy for when we get there. There’s going to be Chinese agents, Chinese sleepers and who knows what else gunning for you and your asset.”

“So how does stopping in the middle of a Rust Town industrial area help?” Reeve said, woken by the argument.

“Because in every good industrial area across America you can find a gun store with low, low prices…” Herron said as Bradshaw pulled over in front of a dimly lit store. “And, more importantly, with more relaxed standards of sale.”

He climbed out of the car and headed for the gun shop, which occupied a stout-looking square brick building. There were bars on the windows, a faded sign up top, and a Confederate flag flying proudly from a pole on the corner. It had all the characteristics of a place Herron and Bradshaw might be able to get extra firepower without the pesky questions that normally accompanied such a transaction.

He walked through the door, Bradshaw following close behind. The chime drew the attention of the store assistant, who seemed surprised to see two guys who looked right out of an Army recruiting poster. The man moved his hands from the magazine he’d been perusing to under the counter. Herron knew exactly what he was reaching for, so he kept his own hands by his side.

“Evening,” Herron said, approaching the counter. “My friend and I are just after some supplies.”

“Strange time for it,” the guy said, suspicion in his voice, although he had stopped reaching for his piece.

“We work night shift.”

Herron and Bradshaw perused the shelves of high-quality hardware on offer. Herron skipped the rifles – too big and bulky for what they needed – and headed right for the pistols. He made a show of scrutinizing them, tut-tutting at each as he moved along the racks, making it clear he hadn’t found what he was after. Elsewhere, Bradshaw did the same, his displeasure clearly audible.

They kept it up for a while, loudly discussing the specs of the guns on offer versus those they needed, putting on a show for the benefit of the shop assistant.

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