The Storm Maker (11 page)

       Six
men got out of the car, all dressed in black shirts and black pants—the uniform
of the Black Star syndicate. Five of them were carrying repeater rifles, the
sixth man had a shotgun on his shoulder and he was the leader of the bunch.

       This
was Hermytt Syk, also known as Shotgun Syk, a master shotgunner with tremendous
strength in his arms and wrist who wielded his shotgun like other men used
their pistols. Shotgun Syk was the most dangerous man in the Starfirian
underworld, even bosses of the smaller syndicates feared him and he was the top
enforcer for Black Star, right hand man of Mr. Barryvk himself. He was slightly
over 6’2’’ with a big, barrel chest, neatly combed hair, sly smile, oblong eyes
and a cut lip. A mean and foul tempered man, it was rumored that he had the
most ‘kills’ of anyone in the underworld.

       As
he got out of the car, he faced his men and said, “Toffy’s garage has three
doors, one in the front and one each on the back and the left wall. I chose you
for this because all of you have seen Toffy before. Is that right?”

       They
all nodded their heads.

       “Two
of you take the back door and two the side door,” he continued. “Don’t
interfere with his operations, but don’t let Toffy escape. I am going to wait
here and give you some time to get positioned. Get going.”

       Four
riflemen started for their posts while another stayed behind with Syk. After a
few minutes Syk and the remaining rifleman walked towards the front door of
Toftar’s car garage. The man standing there slid his hand inside his pant
pocket to his pistol on seeing the two armed men walk towards him. But when
they got closer and he saw Syk’s face, he almost panicked, turned around and
ran inside to tell his boss.

       When
Syk and his rifleman entered the garage, that man was standing besides Toftar
who was on the phone. Toftar was a lean and lanky man with a carved out face as
if it had been starved for a time and a nose poking out front. His hair was
oiled and he stood with a slight hunch.

       “Who
are you calling Toffy?” Syk asked.

       “Mr.
Barryvk,” Toftar said. “Don’t do anything, Shotgun Syk, till I have had a chance
to talk to him.”

       Syk
walked up to Toftar, and yanked the cord away from his hand with a swing of his
shotgun; the phone crashed on the table. The rifleman picked up the phone and
slammed it on its set.

       “Mr.
Barryvk would be playing with his grandchildren now and wouldn’t like to be
disturbed,” Syk said. “I am here to talk about a deal you offered us a while
back.”

       “Which
one was that?” Toftar was scared, slightly shaking and couldn’t think straight.

       “The
deal where you wanted to buy back a large number of stolen cars that you had
sold to Black Star some time ago,” Syk said. “What was that all about?”

       “Oh
that,” Toftar said composing himself. “Some foreigners wanted to buy a large
number of stolen cars with identification plates that couldn’t be traced back
to them. And they wanted only cars in good conditions. Even for a big time car
fence like me, my car thief network can’t deliver so many in such short time.
So I offered to buy them back from your syndicate, at a price that would have
given you a profit.”

       “Forget
the profit,” Syk said. “Who the fuck were those foreigners? Ranxians or
Karxians?”

       “Ranxians,”
Toftar said.

       “Tell
me about them,” Syk ordered, but Toftar stood there frozen not saying a word.

       Shotgun
Syk aimed his shotgun straight at the face of Toftar and then looked around the
room. He saw a nice, expensive car parked just to his side.

       “That
windshield has some splotches, no doubt you will have to replace it before
selling.” Syk turned his shotgun towards the car and blasted the windshield
with a shot. Toftar and his men jumped in the place. “I saved you the trouble
of taking it out.”

       “Please,
Syk, please,” Toftar pleaded.

       “Tell
me about those Ranxians who wanted to buy the stolen cars,” Syk said and aimed
his shotgun back at Toftar’s face.

       “I
can’t tell you much, but I can tell you this,” Toftar said hesitatingly. “I
told them that I only take cash, no bank checks and sure no foreign currency
like they were offering. Then I pointed them to the Broker from whom they got
Starfirian currency to buy some cars that I managed to get for them. Although
nowhere near as many they would have liked.”

       “The
Broker huh?” Shotgun Syk wondered aloud.

       “He
collects information on his clients, especially the bigger ones,” Toftar said.

       “I
know that,” Syk said. “Weststar isn’t that far from here. I am going to collect
some more gunmen and drive there directly and Toffy you better be telling the
truth, because if not then I will come back here and blast each one of your
cars with my shotgun.”

       Toftar
didn’t say anything but let his head slump down. Syk and his man walked out of
the garage and he radioed the rest of his men to meet him back at their car.

* * *

       Saltvyk
was sitting on the front passenger seat of the lead car of a five car caravan.
They had just exited the national road leading to Weststar and taken up driving
on a smaller, two-lane road that used to be the main road connecting Gold
Harbor with Weststar before the newer and bigger four-lane national road was
built. Duke Ragfelvyk had sent more gunmen and now they numbered sixteen
distributed in threes and fours amongst the five cars. Saltvyk was sitting with
a driver who was an experienced, old hand of Duke. A younger man in the back
had an illegal ATR automatic rifle. He was the only one in the caravan with an
automatic, a risky move since those were unlawful for civilians to possess. But
the Broker had gunmen of his own and Saltvyk needed firepower to intimidate
him. The great irony that it was the Broker himself who had supplied them with
many ATR automatic rifles.

       The
Broker, as his name implied, specialized in getting materials and objects.
However, he was no ordinary broker; he dealt in unlawful goods. If you wanted
something and if you were willing to pay high enough price, the Broker Gymyett
Ryx could get it for you. Even the big time underworld syndicates came to him
to get goods that they themselves could not procure. The Broker had cultivated
connections all throughout the Starfire nation and even internationally; he
knew big shots in the underworld, purchase managers in industrial companies,
army supply depot administrators, customs officials, international traders and
shippers, and assorted collection of individuals across fields that could help
him get his hands on interesting and many times unlawful products. The Broker
could get large amounts of foreign currencies, automatic rifles, army-grade
explosives, poisons, safe cracking and lock breaking machines, gambling
machines and the likes. However, it wasn’t just illegal products that he
acquired for his high commission paying clients, it was also items that could
be purchased legally but certain clients wanted to avoid transaction records
and legal trails. Airplanes, cars, boats, submarines, trucks, if someone was
willing to pay cash and a hefty broker’s fee, he would arrange it, no questions
asked, smack down the money, pick up the good and be on your way.

       Naturally,
if the existence of such a man was known to the SPASI and the Police, they
would not have allowed him to continue. SPASI had long heard rumors of the
Broker, but never anything definite. The Broker was very clever and had a small
ego that allowed him to operate beneath the SPASI and Police detection. He had
no organization of his own; he operated all alone, except for the six gunmen
that he had hired as the bodyguards. They were paid generously and were in his
employment continuously for years, even decades. He kept no inventory. He would
tell the seller a remote place to put his goods in and he would tell the buyer
another remote place to put the cash in. Even his buyers and sellers rarely
knew each other, as to who they were buying from or getting their money from.
He only talked to them on the phone, often used public pay phones or changed
his phone companies often. His actual name was known to less than a couple
dozen people. Most of his clients only talked to him on the phone and had never
met him and did not know who he was; only big shots like the bosses of the
syndicates had had a chance to meet him face to face.

       For
that purpose he operated out of an old warehouse that he had purchased just
outside the city limits of Weststar to avoid the Weststar Town Police.
Generally the police in larger cities went after big-time players like him,
while the small town police would leave it up to SPASI to deal with such
underworld characters.

       Ragfelvyk’s
adopted son and his gunmen were driving towards this destination. This old road
was surrounded by vast steppe with nothing except over grown grass on each side
stretching flat in all directions. The Broker’s dilapidated warehouse was
visible and stood out as the only structure.

       As
their caravan got closer to the building’s parking lot, Saltvyk barked, “Stop
the car!”

       The
driver stopped the car and the cars behind braked hard as they had not
anticipated stopping in the middle of the road. The road itself was empty and
there were no other cars coming from either way.

       Saltvyk
pointed towards the parking lot. “Look at that. There are seven cars parked in
the there.”

       “Well,
he has six gunmen as guards,” the driver said.

       “Might
have some customers,” the gunman in the back seat said.

       “Never.
He only meets with one customer in one day to maintain secrecy of the customers
from each other,” Saltvyk said.

       “He
is right,” the driver said. “Whenever we have come with Duke to meet him, it is
only him and his bodyguards.”

       “Besides
they park their cars in the back,” Saltvyk said, “to maintain the image of an
abandoned warehouse, and they only drive two cars amongst the seven of them.”

       “They
are not police or they would have markings,” the driver said. “But they could
be SPASI. We don’t want to stumble onto them with that automatic we brought
with us.”

       “I
will keep it hidden under my coat,” the back seat gunman said. “That’s why I
wore a big coat today, two sizes too big.”

       “I
wouldn’t worry about that. They can’t search him or our cars without a letter
of search,” Saltvyk said, “and they are not going to have it premade.”

       “Could
be another syndicate?” the driver wondered.

       “Could
be,” Saltvyk said. “We’ll park on the other side and then walk in with our guns
drawn. Except for you,” he turned his head back. “You keep that ATR inside your
coat till we are certain that they aren’t SPASI detectives.”

       “Will
do,” he said.

       Then
they slowly drove up to the warehouse, passed the front and pulled into the
empty area on the other side.

               Saltvyk
and his men slowly walked up to the front door of the warehouse. Saltvyk took
out his pistol, as did a few others; the riflemen and the shotgun carriers
adjusted their long guns from their shoulders to their hands in an easier
firing position. As they got nearer they could hear voices coming from inside
and Saltvyk thought he recognized a loud voice. He slowly pushed open the door
and walked in with his pistol in his hand.

       There
was already a crowd of gunmen inside.

       “Look
who it is?” Shotgun Syk said with a big smile. “Our old friend the Saltvyk.”

       “Shotgun
Syk, what are you doing here?” Saltvyk asked as his own gunmen poured into the
room. Shotgun Syk had brought twenty some men with him and they and Ragfelvyk’s
men aimed their rifles, pistols and shotguns at each other. Behind his men,
Shotgun Syk was standing near a table with his shotgun leaning on it. The
Broker was sitting back on a chair, sweating. After seeing the new arrivals his
face lit up. If there was one man that could save him from Syk, it was Saltvyk.
Behind the Broker stood six of his bodyguards, their pistols tucked in their
suits and coats, outnumbered and helpless, just standing and watching. They
were tough and loyal, all six of them, but going against Black Star was not
what they had imagined a part of their job.

       “You
tell me first,” Shotgun Syk said. “I am just here for some information.”

       “We
may be after the same thing then,” Saltvyk said. “We, too, would like some
information.”

       They
looked at each other warily. All of their men were pointing their guns at each
other, only Syk and Saltvyk weren’t. Syk kept his shotgun leaning on the table
while Saltvyk’s pistol was aimed downward. It was only a few years back when
they were at war and had been in shootouts a couple of times. SPASI had
brokered sort of a ‘treaty’ between them and they had marked their turfs. But
the old feelings remained; many of the men here had most likely shot at each
other during the course of that war. Saltvyk examined the situation: in numbers
they were about evenly matched, however the Broker’s bodyguards were a
wildcard. He had quickly noticed the guns of Black Star men and did not seen
any ATRs, meanwhile his own gunman had taken his ATR automatic out of his coat
and was aiming it straight at Syk. However, that was no big advantage in a
short-distance gun battle out in open. If they had a decent cover then ATR
would definitely had come in handy. He had to be careful, he could
inadvertently reignite a war that the bosses did not want and no one here could
walk out of alive. Luckily he found out that Syk shared his thoughts.