Brad was thankful to have been able to sleep in a bed,
even if it hadn't been his own. It had been two days since
he'd spent the night in the hotel, but that had not counted
as a good nights sleep because he had been too nervous to
sleep soundly. Yet, the thought that Asher was in the beach
house with him was sufficient to put his mind at ease. He
felt that as long as Asher was nearby, he need not be
concerned about the authorities.
Asher woke him a little before six with all the finesse
and consideration of a Marine drill instructor. He allowed
Brad to shower and dress (in borrowed clothes) then eat a
wholesome and nutritious breakfast of week-old pizza and
coffee. Brad was use to eating pizza for breakfast. Being
a bachelor, Brad had learned that pizza was one of the four
major food groups.
As he ate, Asher disassembled the kitchen shelf and
placed the nightvission scope they had use on the recon into
its hiding spot. He then left the room for several moments.
When he returned he was carrying what appeared to be a
backpack sized radio. He explained that he would use it for
contacting the helicopter during the rescue. Again he left
the room, but this time he returned with two additional
utility belts like the ones they had carried. It held two
ammo pouches, two canteens, a poncho, and a set of
suspenders with first aide pouch.
He placed the belts, radio, and the combat boots they
had both worn in one of the back packs. "On your feet,
soldier," announced Asher, throwing the ruck over one
shoulder. "We've got two stops to make before we head to
Vegas, this afternoon."
Brad reluctantly chugged down his remaining coffee, and
obediently followed Asher to the LTD. He was relieved to
find that this time Asher slipped behind the wheel. For
several moments, they drove along the highway, until they
reached a mini-storage complex. Asher showed the guard a
key, provided him a fake name, and an assumably legitimate
account number. The guard let them pass, and Asher drove
the car to a small bay with a standard size steel door.
"What are we doing here?"
"You'll see," explained Asher, as he turned the key on
the door's deadbolt lock. He opened the door and turned on
the overhead light. Brad followed him into a small storage
area that measured five by fifteen.
"Holy Shit..." uttered Brad in total amazement.
"You've got enough guns in here to fight a small war!"
Asher laughed. "Hell, there are hardly enough here to
outfit a squad. Anyway, this is our small weapons arsenal."
"When you say small, do you mean quality or quantity?"
"Both. These are the weapons we don't mind the police
finding."
Brad watched as Asher unlocked a rack that contained
six matte black colored weapons. He removed the first one
and handed it to Brad. Brad took the weapon, uneasily, and
examined it from butt to barrel. It was the first time he
had touched an M-16 rifle. "Asher. Uh... This is an
assault rifle."
"Very good," stated the man sarcastically.
"Yeah, but aren't assault rifles are illegal in Los
Angeles?"
Asher turned his attention from the second weapon that
he was fitting into a wood crate, and looked at Brad with an
annoyed glare. "I don't know. I'm a criminal-- I don't
care if it's legal or not."
"Seriously, man, don't you understand how much trouble
you could get into for this?"
"Let me explain this one more time for you: I don't
care whether it's illegal to own an assault rifle or not.
The definition of the term 'criminal' is someone who does
something that is against the law. Well, I'm a mercenary--
in case you hadn't noticed-- and that is against the law.
So, as long as I'm breaking one law, why be concerned with
any others?"
"Where did you get these?" asked the still shocked
reporter.
"What do you mean where did I get them? That's a
stupid question. I bought them."
"There are laws against owning guns like these because
they kill children."
"Dartmouth, you bleeding-heart pansy, gun control
doesn't work. It never has, and it never will. If you make
it against the law to own a gun, the law abiding citizens
will turn in their weapons, but those people who intend to
use their weapons for unlawful purposes will not admit to
owning them. They'll lie about weapons ownership, because
they don't give a shit about your laws."
"Gun control can control crime, Asher. It's you and
your right wingers who don't understand," contested Brad
hotly. "The only reason gun control doesn't seem to work is
because the politicians are too afraid for their jobs to
make real steps to stop the problem"
"Yeah, they know their constituents will vote them out
of office."
"Wrong: they're afraid that the NRA has so much power,
they'll campaign against them. Hey! I bet you're a member
of the NRA, aren't you?"
"No, actually I'm not, because I don't care if the
government bans guns. I'm a criminal, remember?"
"Oh, you will be," started Brad. "There will come a
day when enough laws will be passed to make it unprofitable
for the gun dealers to stay in business and manufacturers to
continue to produce their tools of death. When that day
comes, the only step that will remain will be to round up
the weapons already on the street and destroy them."
"When the average citizen no longer has a pistol, the
suicide rate will decrease, accidental shootings will stop,
and the murder rate will be cut in half. Furthermore, the
criminals won't be able to steal guns from a home to use it
in a crime. No new criminals will have access to guns, and
as the old criminals are caught, their guns will be thrown
into the pot to be melted down, too."
"And soon," interrupted Asher, "we will achieve
Utopia..."
"It's the first step to a truly civilized society."
"Yeah, right, but you've missed one major point."
"And what is that?" asked Brad skeptically.
"No law that is passed in American can effect weapons
production in Brazil. Think about it: the US bans weapons,
the new criminals want weapons, but can't buy them. So,
somebody buys the weapons in Brazil, smuggles them into the
United States and sells them for a tremendous profit.
That's what's going on with drugs."
"Sure that sounds good, Asher, but you'd have to be
able to out smart the FBI, Border Patrol, and local police
to accomplish it."
Asher threw his arm in the air. "I don't know why I
bother. You liberals are so blind. Drug smugglers manage
to bring millions of tons of narcotics into this country
every year. Wilson, the helicopter pilot, can bring a half-
a-ton of drugs into the country at a time. What's the
difference if its a thousand pounds of grass or a thousand
pounds of machine guns? Truthfully, the machine guns are
easier to transport, since they take up less space."
"Smuggling drugs and guns are two completely different
things-- you're comparing apples and oranges."
"Think, Dartmouth! Why did you hire me? Because
Johnson suggested me. How did Johnson know me? I showed
him how the U.S. was smuggling Stinger missiles to the
Afghan rebels. Not one missile... Not a dozen... Hundreds!
They flew them in to Pakistan in C-5's. That's the largest
plane the Air Force has got, and they were packed."
"Now, consider the fact that the border was being
guarded by Soviet Spaznats troops. Those boys are Russia's
best, kind of like our Green Berets, and they make the U.S.
Border Patrol look like a bunch of boy scouts. We sneaked
those missiles in there and turned that war around. If we
could get Stingers into Afghanistan, the gunrunners can get
weapons into the United States."
"Well," snorted Brad, "If that's the case, the Air
Force will just have to bomb the factory."
"Sure. The Air Force won't drop Napalm on the cocoa
fields of Colombia now, I don't see how they can justify an
act of war in the future."
Brad gave up on Asher. He could have convinced anyone
who wasn't a total barbarian that he was right, but Asher
was beyond help. He was, like all anti-gun-control
believers, just another criminal trying to perpetuate the
system of lawlessness and injustice. Anyone with any sense
could see that guns had no legitimate use in today's
society. No one needed to hunt, target shooting was a
ridiculous and useless sport, and self-defense was
irrelevant because the Los Angeles police department is more
than capable of protecting the citizenry.
Asher packed a total of four M-16 rifles into the crate
before latching the top to it, and, with Brad's help, loaded
it into the trunk of the Ford. He returned to the store
room to collect a plastic milk crate with several twenty
round magazines, four black leather holsters, and four long
barreled 38 special revolvers. He explained that he wasn't
sure what type of sidearms the Air Police were using these
days, but that the revolvers would probably get them by.
Brad didn't understand what Asher was implying, and was
still too overcome by the presence of the weapons to ask.
Before locking the door to the storage room, Asher slipped a
box of 38 shells into his jacket pocket and loaded a heavy,
green box into the trunk. The side of the green box were
the words "M193 5.56 MM BALL" stenciled in yellow. Asher
motioned for Brad to mount-up, and drove to their next stop.
Asher's next stop was not at all what Brad had
expected, because he never would have given the man credit
for having the subtly to have considered it. The building
was an old brick warehouse with only a few windows around
the top, and one door. Asher pressed a button on the
intercom and waited for the reply. A moment later a man's
voice emitted from the speaker, Asher identified himself,
and the electronic lock disengaged with a buzz.
"Carl, I'm so happy to see you," stated the man. Brad
said his voice had that certain unmanly lilt, if you know
what I mean. "Who's your friend?"
"This is a business associate of mine," explained
Asher.
"Oh, more business. I was hoping you'd finally come to
pay a social visit."
"Only in your dreams," joked Asher. "Need a favor:
Four uniforms, desert camouflage, Air Police markings."
"Sizes?"
"Large for me, with Master Sergeant Stripes, medium and
X-large with buck Sergeant stripes, and the runt here will
take a small. Make him a one stripe Airman," said Asher
with a grin.
"Don't worry, I'll give you a medium," the man told
Brad with a wink, before disappearing down a hall.
Asher and Brad moved into a living room and sat two of
the low, leather chairs. "Tom's one of the best costume
people in Hollywood; believe it or not, he specializes in
military uniforms. When a director is concerned with
realism, he hires Tom. It took him a while to get the
business rolling, however, so he had to do some things to
make ends meet. We found that we could always count on him
to supply us with uniforms-- be them American, Soviet,
Lebanese. He charges us a little more than an Army surplus
store, but we know the insignia will be right."
The men waited for about half an hour, as Tom precisely
positioned and skillfully sewed the insignia on each of the
four tunics. When he emerged from his work room, he was
carrying a box that contained the neatly folded uniforms,
and a shopping bag. "I took the liberty of making up names
for each of you, and I also found these: four blue military
berets. I didn't have any AP beret devices, so I used a
small Air Force Crest. If anyone questions you, you can say
you're a Special Services unit. From a distance, they'll
pass."
"Great. How much do we owe you?"
"Since you're a special customer, I'll say eight
hundred."
"Eight-hundred!" yelled Brad.
"Feisty, isn't he," whispered Tom to Asher.
"That's a fair price Dartmouth. Pay him."
"I don't mean to be a problem child, or anything, but I
don't have any money and you made me throw away my credit
cards."
Asher knew Brad was telling the truth. Rather than
scrap the operation and blow his chances of bringing down an
additional five grand, Asher pulled eight one hundred dollar
bills from his wallet. "I'll pick up the tap this time,
Dartmouth-- but you owe me."
Brad carried the box of uniforms to the car, because he
didn't want anyone to see him walking out of Tom's place
carrying a shopping bag full of berets. Asher followed
(with the shopping bag), and tossed Brad the keys. "You're
driving, son."
"Yeah... Where am I driving to?" asked Brad as he
started the engine, and merged into traffic.
"We're off to Vegas to see your honey. You know, since
you don't have money for a hotel, she might let us stay at
her place. We could have a nice dinner, maybe a little
wine. Then she'd slip off to the bedroom to slip into
something more comfortable."
"Asher, stop it."
"Something thin and wispy... A virgin-white negligee
loosely clinging to the curves of her waist. Her full
breasts pulling the front open invitingly, as her firm and
erect nipples strain to press through the material of her
lace teddy..."
"Asher!" Brad protested hotly (only partially from
anger).
"Her stockings would slip erotically into four inch
spike heeled shoes, then climb her legs until they hugged
her thighs. She'd stand there, her legs spread, the teddy
unsnapped at the bottom-- a soft, narrow, patch of pubic
hair beckoning for you to fall on your knees and take her in
your arms."
Brad slammed on the brakes of the LTD and nearly threw
Asher against the dash. "Damn you! I don't want you to
touch her! Do you hear me?"
"Jeeze, I just wanted to watch."
Brad pressed the gas pedal, and allowed the car to
continue down the road. "Man, you're a pervert."
"Am not," stated Asher. "Do you think she's got a
thirteen year-old sister?"
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