AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy) by Don Donovan Page A
Authors: Don Donovan
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couldn't
risk having his car spotted by Bebop, who no doubt would be alert to anything
out of the ordinary. Desi was fairly certain Bebop had scouted the area before
agreeing to meet here, and in doing so had noticed no reason for a vehicle to
park beside the chain link fence. If one showed up in the glare of Bebop's
headlights as he maneuvered around the rear of the lumber yard, he would almost
certainly become suspicious.
Quietly, he slipped out of the Escalade, Kleins in
hand. He made short work of the chain link fence, cutting a three-foot by
three-foot hole near to the building itself, enabling him to comfortably crawl
through. After replacing the cutters, he pulled a black case out of the Escalade's
boot and opened it.
The neatly-arranged components of a Huldra Mark IV
stared up at him out of the velvet interior. An excellent tactical weapon,
relatively small, fairly quiet, low recoil. It was accurate up to more than a
hundred yards, but the target would be a lot closer than that. He assembled the
rifle, mounting the scope last.
He bought the rifle right after having lunch with
Alicia the other day. Then he went directly to a shooting range out in West
Miami-Dade to practice using it.
He remembered his father's words from years ago. Always practice with a new gun if you have
the time . Practice for hours every
day for as many days as you can before you have to use it. You don't want to
fumble with it the moment you need it. You want it to feel secure in your
hands, ready to do exactly what you want it to do. And then Desi remembered
the warning, And don't spend too long
practicing at any one gun range. You don't want to attract anyone's attention,
make them wonder why you're there for so many hours. You want to blend in just
like everyone else. Shoot a few clips and then move on to the next range.
So he shot forty or fifty rounds, then headed up
to more ranges in Broward and Palm Beach counties. Big ranges, where there was
less of a chance his Mark IV would stand out. A small range, you basically have
guys (and girls) coming in with their .38s and nines and whatnot looking to
blow off steam. A sniper rifle, and its owner's description, would sear itself
into the memory of the manager of such a range. After two days of anonymity at
the big ranges in South Florida, Desi felt comfortable with his weapon.
He crossed the street and crawled through the
fence.
The carelessly-stacked cinderblocks a couple of
yards inside the fence gave him the cover he needed. One stack to his left,
about three feet high and six feet long, ran parallel to I-95, providing
shelter from passing motorists, not that any of them would ever look over in
that direction. Another stack in front of him was about four feet high, hiding
him from anyone in the large area behind the building where the deal was set to
go down. He loaded his magazine and attached it to his weapon. Then he sat back
to wait.
He looked behind him. No activity on the short street
or in the vicinity of the vacant building where he parked. The only motion was
the droning of passing traffic on I-95 on his left. The thick, moist night air
kept the temperature hovering around eighty degrees. No breeze, no clouds, only
a fingernail-shaped moon peeked out of the sky. A line of sweat formed on
Desi's forehead and under his arms.
It wasn't long before headlights swung around the
rear area entrance at the far end. Desi peered over the cinderblocks and caught
the car coming into the area. It slowed and turned around to face the entrance
at a point about forty yards away from his nest. As the car wheeled around into
position, he made it to be a BMW, one of the really big ones, black or maybe
dark blue. The car rolled to a stop, facing away from Desi, leaving its
headlights shining toward the entrance. No one got out. Traffic sped by on I-95
not thirty yards away, but nobody passing noticed the car in this godforsaken
lot behind a nondescript building.
A few minutes later, Desi saw
risk having his car spotted by Bebop, who no doubt would be alert to anything
out of the ordinary. Desi was fairly certain Bebop had scouted the area before
agreeing to meet here, and in doing so had noticed no reason for a vehicle to
park beside the chain link fence. If one showed up in the glare of Bebop's
headlights as he maneuvered around the rear of the lumber yard, he would almost
certainly become suspicious.
Quietly, he slipped out of the Escalade, Kleins in
hand. He made short work of the chain link fence, cutting a three-foot by
three-foot hole near to the building itself, enabling him to comfortably crawl
through. After replacing the cutters, he pulled a black case out of the Escalade's
boot and opened it.
The neatly-arranged components of a Huldra Mark IV
stared up at him out of the velvet interior. An excellent tactical weapon,
relatively small, fairly quiet, low recoil. It was accurate up to more than a
hundred yards, but the target would be a lot closer than that. He assembled the
rifle, mounting the scope last.
He bought the rifle right after having lunch with
Alicia the other day. Then he went directly to a shooting range out in West
Miami-Dade to practice using it.
He remembered his father's words from years ago. Always practice with a new gun if you have
the time . Practice for hours every
day for as many days as you can before you have to use it. You don't want to
fumble with it the moment you need it. You want it to feel secure in your
hands, ready to do exactly what you want it to do. And then Desi remembered
the warning, And don't spend too long
practicing at any one gun range. You don't want to attract anyone's attention,
make them wonder why you're there for so many hours. You want to blend in just
like everyone else. Shoot a few clips and then move on to the next range.
So he shot forty or fifty rounds, then headed up
to more ranges in Broward and Palm Beach counties. Big ranges, where there was
less of a chance his Mark IV would stand out. A small range, you basically have
guys (and girls) coming in with their .38s and nines and whatnot looking to
blow off steam. A sniper rifle, and its owner's description, would sear itself
into the memory of the manager of such a range. After two days of anonymity at
the big ranges in South Florida, Desi felt comfortable with his weapon.
He crossed the street and crawled through the
fence.
The carelessly-stacked cinderblocks a couple of
yards inside the fence gave him the cover he needed. One stack to his left,
about three feet high and six feet long, ran parallel to I-95, providing
shelter from passing motorists, not that any of them would ever look over in
that direction. Another stack in front of him was about four feet high, hiding
him from anyone in the large area behind the building where the deal was set to
go down. He loaded his magazine and attached it to his weapon. Then he sat back
to wait.
He looked behind him. No activity on the short street
or in the vicinity of the vacant building where he parked. The only motion was
the droning of passing traffic on I-95 on his left. The thick, moist night air
kept the temperature hovering around eighty degrees. No breeze, no clouds, only
a fingernail-shaped moon peeked out of the sky. A line of sweat formed on
Desi's forehead and under his arms.
It wasn't long before headlights swung around the
rear area entrance at the far end. Desi peered over the cinderblocks and caught
the car coming into the area. It slowed and turned around to face the entrance
at a point about forty yards away from his nest. As the car wheeled around into
position, he made it to be a BMW, one of the really big ones, black or maybe
dark blue. The car rolled to a stop, facing away from Desi, leaving its
headlights shining toward the entrance. No one got out. Traffic sped by on I-95
not thirty yards away, but nobody passing noticed the car in this godforsaken
lot behind a nondescript building.
A few minutes later, Desi saw
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