Too Wylde by Marcus Wynne Page B
Authors: Marcus Wynne
Tags: detective, thriller, Crime, Mystery, Hardboiled, CIA, Terrorism, Noir, special forces, guns, underworld, Navy SEALs, Special Operations, gunfighter, counterterrorism, marcus wynne, covert operations, afghanistan war, johnny wylde, tactical operations, capers
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he found an older IWB
strong side holster from Sparks, the Executive, and a matching
double mag carrier. Hard to beat Sparks, even in this day of kydex.
He set up the holster and the mag pouch, laid it on the bench.
Nice.
His cell phone rang. It was Jimmy.
"Hello?"
"Deon, you at the shop?"
"Yes."
"I'll be by."
"I'm here. I've got a present for you."
"On my way."
Deon leaned back, kicked his feet up, lit a
cigarette, blew a circle of smoke with a contented sigh. Life was
good. The entry buzzer rang. Deon looked up at his camera and saw
three men standing at the door. Somalis, by the look of them. Hmmm.
Business had been slow, and he really couldn't afford to blow them
off, though he was tempted to. He hit the buzzer and they came
through the door. Deon got up and walked through the curtains to
the storefront with his cases of handguns and racks of rifles, ammo
and accessories.
Face to face, definitely Somali. Oftentimes
he wondered at how Lake City had come to have such a concentration
of bad-ass minorities: first the Hmong, now the Somalis, making
Lake City a hot spot for terror activity, as well as a particularly
vicious brand of armed violence.
Not that Deon minded. He did, after all,
vacation regularly in South Africa, though he was a bit saddened
watching Lake City go the way of Jo'burg.
"Hello, sir," the oldest said, early middle
age, maybe 40s, man in charge type. "We are interested in handguns
for self-defense."
Deon smiled his crocodile smile. "Well,
you've come to the right place."
The two younger shooters -- because that's
what they surely were, early 20s, cocky and grinning with the
certainty of blooded killers -- nodded in agreement.
"So who's first?" Deon said, his cigarette
smoldering in his left hand.
"I'm sorry?" the older man said.
"What sort of training do you have? Do you
have any...experience...with hand guns? That would help me help
you," Deon said affably.
Silence.
"Yes," the older man said. "I have some
experience. But we would also like training. I am told by my
friends that you are a very good trainer. We would like to take
classes from you. After we buy our pistols."
"Have you taken the CCW class yet?"
"No, sir."
"That would be a good first step. I have one
this weekend, and there will be room available. Perhaps you'd like
that? Yes?"
The two shooters began the shark-circle, one
going to the left, one going to the right. Deon grinned, took a
long drag on his cigarette.
"Well, then...let's see what we can show
you..." he said.
Number 1 shooter started the dip of the
shoulder that showed he was going for something Mexican carry, or
appendix as the tacti-cool guys said, and Deon flipped his lit
cigarette very casually and accurately directly at Number 1's face
while his right hand cleared his open shirt and came up with his
Weapon of The Day, an old USGI issue .45 manufactured by
Springfield Armory and lovingly rebuilt and refinished by Deon, who
loved an old weapon with history, and it cleared his old Bruce
Nelson Classic Summer Special and he put the first round right in
the older man's face because, well, Deon hated disrespect, and they
obviously took him for a poofer, so he planted a Federal HTX 230
grain right on the bridge of his nose, that done for and the other
two were frozen like a freeze-frame in a movie, #1 covering his
face, #2 stuck like a deer in the headlights, and now Deon acquired
a full firing grip, as shown him by that lovely man Claude Werner
during one of his periodic tune-ups down at the Harvard of
Gunfighting Schools, Bill Rogers in Georgia, thumbs forward, very
distinctive with the strong side thumb on top of the support hand,
and pressed the trigger and watched the front sight track almost
directly straight back while a pink hole emerged on the bridge of
#2 shooter's nose, and then rode the track right back to #1 who was
opening his mouth and raising his hand to say something, probably
No or Stop or something similarly useless, so Deon shot him right
in
strong side holster from Sparks, the Executive, and a matching
double mag carrier. Hard to beat Sparks, even in this day of kydex.
He set up the holster and the mag pouch, laid it on the bench.
Nice.
His cell phone rang. It was Jimmy.
"Hello?"
"Deon, you at the shop?"
"Yes."
"I'll be by."
"I'm here. I've got a present for you."
"On my way."
Deon leaned back, kicked his feet up, lit a
cigarette, blew a circle of smoke with a contented sigh. Life was
good. The entry buzzer rang. Deon looked up at his camera and saw
three men standing at the door. Somalis, by the look of them. Hmmm.
Business had been slow, and he really couldn't afford to blow them
off, though he was tempted to. He hit the buzzer and they came
through the door. Deon got up and walked through the curtains to
the storefront with his cases of handguns and racks of rifles, ammo
and accessories.
Face to face, definitely Somali. Oftentimes
he wondered at how Lake City had come to have such a concentration
of bad-ass minorities: first the Hmong, now the Somalis, making
Lake City a hot spot for terror activity, as well as a particularly
vicious brand of armed violence.
Not that Deon minded. He did, after all,
vacation regularly in South Africa, though he was a bit saddened
watching Lake City go the way of Jo'burg.
"Hello, sir," the oldest said, early middle
age, maybe 40s, man in charge type. "We are interested in handguns
for self-defense."
Deon smiled his crocodile smile. "Well,
you've come to the right place."
The two younger shooters -- because that's
what they surely were, early 20s, cocky and grinning with the
certainty of blooded killers -- nodded in agreement.
"So who's first?" Deon said, his cigarette
smoldering in his left hand.
"I'm sorry?" the older man said.
"What sort of training do you have? Do you
have any...experience...with hand guns? That would help me help
you," Deon said affably.
Silence.
"Yes," the older man said. "I have some
experience. But we would also like training. I am told by my
friends that you are a very good trainer. We would like to take
classes from you. After we buy our pistols."
"Have you taken the CCW class yet?"
"No, sir."
"That would be a good first step. I have one
this weekend, and there will be room available. Perhaps you'd like
that? Yes?"
The two shooters began the shark-circle, one
going to the left, one going to the right. Deon grinned, took a
long drag on his cigarette.
"Well, then...let's see what we can show
you..." he said.
Number 1 shooter started the dip of the
shoulder that showed he was going for something Mexican carry, or
appendix as the tacti-cool guys said, and Deon flipped his lit
cigarette very casually and accurately directly at Number 1's face
while his right hand cleared his open shirt and came up with his
Weapon of The Day, an old USGI issue .45 manufactured by
Springfield Armory and lovingly rebuilt and refinished by Deon, who
loved an old weapon with history, and it cleared his old Bruce
Nelson Classic Summer Special and he put the first round right in
the older man's face because, well, Deon hated disrespect, and they
obviously took him for a poofer, so he planted a Federal HTX 230
grain right on the bridge of his nose, that done for and the other
two were frozen like a freeze-frame in a movie, #1 covering his
face, #2 stuck like a deer in the headlights, and now Deon acquired
a full firing grip, as shown him by that lovely man Claude Werner
during one of his periodic tune-ups down at the Harvard of
Gunfighting Schools, Bill Rogers in Georgia, thumbs forward, very
distinctive with the strong side thumb on top of the support hand,
and pressed the trigger and watched the front sight track almost
directly straight back while a pink hole emerged on the bridge of
#2 shooter's nose, and then rode the track right back to #1 who was
opening his mouth and raising his hand to say something, probably
No or Stop or something similarly useless, so Deon shot him right
in
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