Hunter's Games (15 page)

He sets off up the stairs, beckoning me to follow. I walk after him, briefly looking back over my shoulder at the large twins.

“You boys not coming?” I ask with a smile.

One of them gives me the middle finger and they both sit back down on their chairs, which creak loudly under the weight.

“Huh, figured as much,” I say, just loud enough for them to hear me.

We walk up two flights of stairs in silence. The decor on each floor mirrors that of the lobby. I suspect any residents of this particular tower block aren’t overly concerned about the state of the wallpaper in the hallways...

“You know, this would be a lot more customer-friendly if you got the elevators fixed,” I observe, casually.

“We ain’t trying for no Investors In People awards, dickhead,” comes the response.

We carry on in silence until we come up on the fourth floor landing. A group of five men is loitering around outside the nearest door to the stairwell. They look like low-level heroin addicts—skinny, with their faces thin and drawn; their eyes set deep in their sockets. They stop talking and all turn to look at me, giving me a disapproving once over, but say nothing. They nod an unspoken greeting to the doorman before turning back to their own conversation.

Onward we climb, up floor after floor, until we finally reach the landing on the tenth.

The top floor looks different. It’s cleaner, for a start. There’s been more effort made with the décor—a nice carpet replaces the forty-year-old linoleum. White paint replaces the cracked, dirty, pale yellow found on the floors below us. There’s even a large plant by the wall next to the elevators.

Joseph Turner must want to make it abundantly clear to anyone who comes here that he’s in charge and they’re in his house.

We turn right and walk down the long corridor. There are fewer apartments on this floor, which I suspect means that they’re bigger inside. We walk past two doors, one on either side. Both are open. On the left, I can see a room full of muscle—at least four guys, built like bodybuilders, and armed with shotguns. There’s a woman in there too, counting money at a table. No one looks up as we walk past.

That’s not a good sign. There are a lot of people here, which means Turner has lots of protection. It’s a large-scale operation, no doubt about it.

I glance in the door on the right. From what I can see, it’s a living room of some kind. A couple of worn sofas are visible. There are three more guys in there, sitting in a cloud of smoke floating above them. I recognize the smell—a very strong and high quality marijuana. Sitting among the guys are a couple of young women—neither looks any older than twenty-one. Both are skinny and under-nourished. Addicts, I’m guessing. Both are completely naked.

Jesus. Their fathers must be so proud…

We come to the end of the corridor. The doorman knocks on the last door on the left, which has a guy either side of it armed with a shotgun. They both nod a curt greeting to him as he approaches. There’s a sound from behind the door of multiple locks unfastening and bolts sliding back, then it opens slowly, about two inches. I can just about see one eye and half a nose in the gap.

“Got a customer here to see Jo-Jo,” announces the doorman.

The door slams shut again, and a moment later, it opens fully. The doorman steps to one side and gestures me through with his gun.

“Go on,” he says.

I step past him and walk inside the apartment. The guy who opened the door stands, leaning against the wall on my left. He shuts the door behind me, and pushes me on my shoulder to signal I should go in.

The apartment is a large open-plan expanse, with four doors leading off into other rooms. I quickly glance around the room and I soon spot Joseph Turner. He’s sitting in a large armchair but quickly stands as I walk in. He has six guys in here with him, all packing Desert Eagles.

I know that because they all have them drawn and in their hands…

He must have got a bulk discount on the damn things or something!

There are also three women, looking similar to the ones I just saw down the hall, but with more clothes on. Only just, though.

The main living area has a kitchenette in the far left corner as I look. It’s small and basic, but good enough quality. Next to that in the right corner is a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. It’s easily sixty inches. It looks like a goddamn cinema.

There’s an over-sized, L-shaped sofa in the middle of the room, occupied by the three women and two of the guys. In front of me and to the right is a large, floor to ceiling window and a dining table with six chairs around it. Three of the guys are sitting around the table, which I note has a laptop open on it. The remaining guy is standing over by the TV near Turner.

Everyone turns to look at me as I enter.

Turner steps toward me. He’s wearing a yellow t-shirt, brown shorts and sandals. He also has on a beaded, wooden necklace and black sunglasses resting on top of his head. He has a couple of days’ worth of rough stubble on his face. He looks like a surfer missing his board. Not quite what you’d expect from one of the premier arms dealers on the West Coast. When he speaks, his voice is deep and gravelly, like he’s smoked forty a day for the last twenty years.

“Who are you, and what can I do for you?” he asks, looking me up and down wearily.

“My name’s James,” I say, trying to sound uncomfortable and quiet.

“James...?”

“Hetfield.”

He looks at me funny. “Your name is James Hetfield?”

I nod, trying to look like I don’t see what the big deal was.

He laughs loudly and points at me, looking around until his six hired goons, plus the one behind me, start laughing too.

“Do you know that’s a pretty famous name around these parts?” he says, as his laughter subsides.

I shrug and shake my head. “No kiddin’?” I say, acting clueless, but knowing damn well who James Hetfield is.

He has a strange smile that would be un-nerving to the average person, and an aura about him that exudes confidence and charisma. But he also has a look in his eye that screams of evil. I know I have to tread carefully.

“Listen,” I say. “I was told you could help me out. I’m looking for some hardware, and your name is top of the list of suppliers around these parts. Am I in the right place?”

“That depends,” he says, casually strolling over to counter in the kitchenette. “What do you want?”

“I need a handgun. Something light, but sturdy. I was thinking maybe a Glock?”

“Okay,” he nods. “Easy enough to supply.”

“I also need a sniper rifle for a .300 caliber round. I’m looking at a thousand meters, easy. Was thinking maybe a Remington?”

“A Remington?” he says, stroking his stubble with his hand as if deep in thought. “Interesting choice… Mind if I ask what you want it for?”

Bingo.

“My guy is gonna be covering me from a good distance. I need to make sure he has a reliable weapon, given he’s guarding my life.”

Turner nods. “A wise choice. You seem to know your stuff, Mr... Hetfield. You’re in luck, too. I had someone just the other day come in and order the same rifle, so I got my hands on a crate of them.”

“Really? Well, that
is
a stroke of luck.”

I know I’ve got to play it just right, but I leap on the opportunity to try to get something more out of him.

“Hang on a minute,” I say, giving my best look of sudden concern. “What did this other guy look like?”

Turner cocks his head to the side, his eyes narrowing as they flick to one of his bodyguards, then back to me.

“Why?” he asks, suspiciously.

“Well, I’m just thinking—I’ve spent weeks researching this job in extensive detail, and that rifle is perfect for it. If someone else is in town asking after the same gun, maybe they’ve got designs on the same job I do. It’s a competitive business that I’m in, shall we say. I wouldn’t mind checking the guy out, if it’s all the same to you.”

His face softens and his expression mellows again.

“I can understand that. You gotta protect your investments, am I right?”

“Absolutely.”

“But while I feel your pain, Jimmy, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to decline in helping you out with that. I run a reputable business, and the privacy of my clients is paramount. The confidentiality I guarantee with the service I provide is the reason I’m as successful as I am.”

He gestures to the room, as if it’s a prime example of his accomplishments.

“I understand,” I say, not wanting to push my luck. “So, how do you want to work this? I can get the money to you by the end of today. You got a bank account I can arrange a transfer to?”

He laughs again. “Jimmy, I sell weapons for a living—I deal in cash, and I don’t exactly declare things to the IRS, know what I’m saying?”

“Oh, of course—sorry! I can have the cash with you in a few hours. How much are we looking at?”

Turner walks over to me. The bodyguard who’s standing next to him also takes a few steps toward me, but hangs back. I glance around quickly and subtly at the rest of the room. The three women on the sofa aren’t a threat, so I can rule them out. The three guys at the table, the two on the sofa and the one backing up Turner are the main concern. Plus there’s the guy behind me by the door…

Certainly not the best situation I’ve ever been in. However, as sad as it makes my life sound, it’s not the worst either.

Turner’s standing a couple of feet in front of me. I regard him with as neutral a gaze as I can, trying to stay in character.

“Well,” he begins. “For the Glock, I’ll do you a good price, because I like your name.”

He laughs again. I hate people who continuously amuse themselves like that. “You can have it for five hundred,” he continues.

I nod, with a slightly surprised look on my face. “That’s a fair price. I appreciate that, Jo-Jo—thank you.”

He shrugs humbly. “I’m a businessman,” he says. “I know how to conduct my business deals, y’know. Now, the Remington... that’ll cost ya. Seventy-five hundred.”

Being in the line of work that I am, I happen to know that a good price for a sniper rifle of that caliber is around the six thousand mark. What he’s trying to charge me is extortionate!

“That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?” I ask, taking more of a risk than I probably should do.

Turner flexes his shoulders, and I feel all the bodyguards around me tense up.

“Hey, you came to me, remember? You don’t like the price list? Fuck off.”

I sense the guy behind me take a step closer.

Shit.

I’m pretty sure the whole thing’s just gone horribly wrong…

I put my hands up defensively.

“I’m sorry, man. I meant nothing by it. Can’t blame a guy for trying to negotiate a little, right? Seventy-five hundred is fine.”

“No… y’know what? The price just went up. You want the Remington? It’ll cost you an even ten large.”

I sigh. My spider sense is tingling big time. This conversation is only going to end one way, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to cower away and back off and apologize and grovel. I don’t care if I
am
pretending.

Besides, I need to stall in the hope the next part of my plan works. But before that, I need to get over to that laptop, which isn’t going to happen with seven guys and Turner in the way…

Time for plan B, I think. When in doubt: antagonize and capitalize. Wind them up so they make a mistake, then take advantage.

I look Turner dead in the eye. My persona slowly shifts back to normal. I feel my body relax, my breathing slow and my mind kick in and begin to work on an exit strategy.

The faint sound of gunfire way below us distracts me.

Didn’t even get chance to say anything…

Turner hears it too, as the mood changes and he looks over at the group of three men on my right by the table.

“You three,” he says. “Go and find out what the fuck’s going on.”

The three of them stand and pile out the door. The guy standing by it remains in the room, as do the two on the sofa, who now stand and stare at me.

Turner draws his gun—which is also a Desert Eagle—and aims it at my head.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demands.

I hold my hands out to the sides. “I told you who I am. Who the fuck are
you
?” I reply. “Is this some kind of set up? Are you a fucking cop?”

He scoffs and seems to take genuine offence. “No, I’m fucking not. Are you?”

“No! I just want to buy a goddamn gun—is that too much to ask?”

The door bursts open behind me. I turn and see one of the three guys rushing back in, out of breath.

“Boss, we got a big fucking problem!”

12.

11:17

TURNER DOESN’T MOVE, keeping his gun trained on me. He looks at his man.