years in anticipation of a scenario in which he with the biggest guns wins.
Walker pulled the Explorer out of Capstone’s garage space, and Bradford recited the address. She glanced at him with that look of hers but said nothing until they were off the 80, east of Dallas, a full thirty minutes from where they’d started. She pulled off the access road to stop in front of a twenty-four-hour storage complex and nudged Bradford awake.
The cluster of cinder-block buildings sat back off the feeder road in an area of used-car lots and bodywork and pawn shops—an area just derelict enough that the razor-wire fencing, powerful lights, and security cameras would have been necessary if they hadn’t already come as part of the package.
Bradford leaned over Walker, half planting himself in her lap to enter the gate code. She held her breath. It seemed unfair that after days of burning the midnight oil, she still smelled human and lightly floral.
The fenced gate rolled open, and Bradford directed Walker through the maze of alleys between buildings to the rear of the complex and the front of a cinder-block ten-by-twenty leased in a fake name and registered to a fake business.
Bradford stepped out, keyed the padlock open, and lifted the reinforced door up on its rollers to the midpoint, then went in under and moved through the darkness to the left wall. By touch he deactivated the alarm on a pad without a backlight.
If the door had passed the three-quarter mark, if he’d taken longer than forty seconds to get to the numerical pad, the storage unit would have filled with smoke and CS gas, and the war room, so many miles away, would have been notified that the cache had been compromised and to stay the hell away.
Bradford raised the door the remaining distance, and Walker backed the Explorer as close to the opening as the limited width of the alley allowed.
The unit housed seven fireproof gun safes, chained together and lag-bolted to the concrete. Bradford unlocked two. The fragrance of gun oil and metal overpowered the musk of dust from the storage space. He paused to scan the contents, and Walker, guiding the flashlight for his benefit, let out a low whistle.
“Armageddon, much?” she said.
“Grab that duffel bag to your right, will you?”
She swung the beam just long enough to snag the canvas and toss it in his direction. Paused and then also toed an empty plastic foot locker toward him. In the silence, it groaned, loud against the concrete. Bradford stared at her. Shook his head and returned to a safe. Pulled the door wider so that she had a clear view of the inventory.
“Pick your flavor,” he said.
Walker pointed with the light. “One for me, one for Jack.”
Bradford unracked an MP5, ran the bolt, and handed the weapon to her. Did the same for the two he placed in the locker. “And that sniper,” she said.
He followed the light to the lone M2010, his newest addition to the cache, a tool that in the right hands had an effective range of 1,200 meters: agent of death from three-quarters of a mile away.
Walker didn’t have traditional military training, hadn’t gone through a conventional war that might look good on a private contractor’s brag sheet, or give him cause to hand over such a piece. Instead she’d had her overly protective father who’d lived as a shooter for nearly two decades and treated her as if she was his only son. Walker knew more about the art of sniping than some men who’d been hunting their entire lives, and although Bradford wouldn’t risk putting her up against elite military, the jobs he ran typically didn’t require that level of skill.
She slid from the tailgate to take the rifle from him. Handled the piece with the same tenderness and admiration a mother would show a newborn.
Bradford collected the scope and bipod and passed them to her, then shut that safe.
Walker said, “What about plastics?”
She wanted controlled explosion. Bradford reopened the safe, grabbed
Walker pulled the Explorer out of Capstone’s garage space, and Bradford recited the address. She glanced at him with that look of hers but said nothing until they were off the 80, east of Dallas, a full thirty minutes from where they’d started. She pulled off the access road to stop in front of a twenty-four-hour storage complex and nudged Bradford awake.
The cluster of cinder-block buildings sat back off the feeder road in an area of used-car lots and bodywork and pawn shops—an area just derelict enough that the razor-wire fencing, powerful lights, and security cameras would have been necessary if they hadn’t already come as part of the package.
Bradford leaned over Walker, half planting himself in her lap to enter the gate code. She held her breath. It seemed unfair that after days of burning the midnight oil, she still smelled human and lightly floral.
The fenced gate rolled open, and Bradford directed Walker through the maze of alleys between buildings to the rear of the complex and the front of a cinder-block ten-by-twenty leased in a fake name and registered to a fake business.
Bradford stepped out, keyed the padlock open, and lifted the reinforced door up on its rollers to the midpoint, then went in under and moved through the darkness to the left wall. By touch he deactivated the alarm on a pad without a backlight.
If the door had passed the three-quarter mark, if he’d taken longer than forty seconds to get to the numerical pad, the storage unit would have filled with smoke and CS gas, and the war room, so many miles away, would have been notified that the cache had been compromised and to stay the hell away.
Bradford raised the door the remaining distance, and Walker backed the Explorer as close to the opening as the limited width of the alley allowed.
The unit housed seven fireproof gun safes, chained together and lag-bolted to the concrete. Bradford unlocked two. The fragrance of gun oil and metal overpowered the musk of dust from the storage space. He paused to scan the contents, and Walker, guiding the flashlight for his benefit, let out a low whistle.
“Armageddon, much?” she said.
“Grab that duffel bag to your right, will you?”
She swung the beam just long enough to snag the canvas and toss it in his direction. Paused and then also toed an empty plastic foot locker toward him. In the silence, it groaned, loud against the concrete. Bradford stared at her. Shook his head and returned to a safe. Pulled the door wider so that she had a clear view of the inventory.
“Pick your flavor,” he said.
Walker pointed with the light. “One for me, one for Jack.”
Bradford unracked an MP5, ran the bolt, and handed the weapon to her. Did the same for the two he placed in the locker. “And that sniper,” she said.
He followed the light to the lone M2010, his newest addition to the cache, a tool that in the right hands had an effective range of 1,200 meters: agent of death from three-quarters of a mile away.
Walker didn’t have traditional military training, hadn’t gone through a conventional war that might look good on a private contractor’s brag sheet, or give him cause to hand over such a piece. Instead she’d had her overly protective father who’d lived as a shooter for nearly two decades and treated her as if she was his only son. Walker knew more about the art of sniping than some men who’d been hunting their entire lives, and although Bradford wouldn’t risk putting her up against elite military, the jobs he ran typically didn’t require that level of skill.
She slid from the tailgate to take the rifle from him. Handled the piece with the same tenderness and admiration a mother would show a newborn.
Bradford collected the scope and bipod and passed them to her, then shut that safe.
Walker said, “What about plastics?”
She wanted controlled explosion. Bradford reopened the safe, grabbed
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