Undeclared War (8 page)

In the center of the room was a slender man of medium height and slightly swarthy complexion. In his light brown camel's hair blazer, gray woolen trousers, light blue silk shirt with a silver silk tie, and black leather kidskin gloves, Arzee looked like a country gentleman who might be trying out top-grade double shotguns prior to going out on a grouse hunt. The Jackhammer shotgun in his hands looked like anything but a graceful hunting weapon. Still, the open breech of the weapon told Reaper that
it was empty and the man wasn't an immediate threat.

The tailored suit and styled haircut did not disguise the oily nature of the man underneath it all. His highly polished black oxford shoes looked as if they were replaced immediately if they were ever scuffed. From all of the man's carefully crafted style, Reaper figured he knew who drove the Corvette, the man he was identifying as Suit.

The glass display case on the wall behind the Suit was empty. That was where the four prototype Jackhammers had been racked up. The long boxes of ammunition cassettes that had been on the bottom of the case were missing along with the other three guns. These three thugs did not appear to be running a simple gun robbery, otherwise they would have probably just shot Reaper as he came in the door. No, they had been waiting for him to return from his run. There was something more they wanted.

Reaper's training and experience had him immediately identifying the levels of threat in the room, assessing the situation, and quantifying his response. For all of its complexity, his reactions spanned barely seconds before he had completed his judgments. He didn't know the threat's names, and didn't care. Reaper quickly put his own identifiers, as good as a name to him, on the strangers in the room.

Immediately to his right, barely a step away, was a thug who Reaper categorized as little more than a musclehead. Maybe five feet ten, 235 pounds, with swarthy skin and buzz-cut black hair, the thug was
heavily muscled with almost no neck showing. The tan sports jacket and black turtleneck sweater were probably intended by the man to maximize the visual impact of his size.

The muscles looked to have come from hours of pumping iron, but their appearance told Reaper that this was a vain man. Although his workouts were the kind that increased the size of his chest and arms, the musclehead didn't look like he spent as much time on his legs, building up his size in a more symmetrical manner.

The man also moved stiffly, musclebound from all of his exercise. In spite of a more limited range of motion in his arms and legs, the big man was fast enough. Stepping up behind Reaper, the musclehead grabbed the SEAL from behind, securing a solid grip on both of his upper arms. The thug held no weapon and probably thought with his muscles and little else. But at that moment, he didn't need a weapon.

To the left, standing behind the Suit so that he could clearly cover both Reaper and Deckert, was a gunman who was pointing a massive Desert Eagle semiautomatic pistol at Reaper. The gunman had covered the SEAL from the moment he had entered the room. The muzzle of the big pistol looked to be about a .44-magnum caliber.

The gunman was only about five four in height, slight in build with tan skin, black hair, and a bushy mustache, wearing a loose brown sports jacket, unbuttoned over a black shirt and black pants. Reaper classified him as a gun weasel—he had the look of a little man who had something to prove with a big
gun. That big gun made him the most immediate visible threat in the room.

He may have been slight in stature, but the gun weasel held the Desert Eagle in a steady hand. The hammer was back on the big pistol. That fact cut back on the possible openings for Reaper to secure the gun.

But who in his right mind would carry such a massive piece of hardware? The gun was impractical to carry concealed for someone even Reaper's size, and it was heavy to drag around as well. For all of its weight, the power of the Desert Eagle made it a real handful to control. But that same power was probably why this gun weasel carried such a piece—compensation for his stature and build.

The little man had the only two threatening weapons visible in anyone's hands in the showroom. The Desert Eagle remained steady in the man's right hand while his left kept covering Deckert with an M1911A1 .45 automatic. By the look of the smoldering hate combined with frustration in Deckert's face, the gun weasel was probably adding insult to injury by threatening him with his own weapon.

Reaper noted the location of everyone in the room and cataloged their probable threat level. He just watched as the man snapped the thumb safety on to the M1911A1 and slipped the pistol into the waistband of his trousers. As the gun weasel approached Reaper, he pulled the big Desert Eagle back against his right hip, keeping it out of the way of a chance grab. Reaper didn't move at all as the other man used his free left hand to snatch the Taurus revolver from Reaper's right front pocket.

After slipping the Taurus into his own pocket, the gun weasel conducted a cursory pat-down. With a curt “he's clean,” the gun weasel stepped back away from Reaper. The little man didn't realize just how serious a mistake he had made in his poorly done search. He had taken the obvious weapon, but hardly the only one the SEAL had.

In Reaper's right front pocket, clipped behind the holster and along the rear seam of the Levi's, was a green G10-handled Emerson CQC-7BW folding knife. The 3.3-inch-long chisel-ground Tanto-style blade was razor-sharp. Not exactly a sword, but better than nothing in the hands of a trained man. And Reaper was a very well-trained man.

Turning to the counter to his right, Arzee casually set the Jackhammer shotgun down before turning back to Reaper.

“Mister Reaper, I presume,” Arzee said with a small smile, “so good to meet you. I've read excellent things about your work here.”

“You'll have to excuse me if I don't shake hands,” Reaper said. “And you are?”

“Yes,” Arzee said, “well, I thought it would be necessary for my friend there behind you to restrain your enthusiasm lest it get the better of you. And I think we can forgo the formality of names for now.”

Reaper could see the reflection of the man he now thought of as Musclehead, in the glass of a display case. The big thug smiled broadly at Arzee's words and squeezed down hard on both of Reaper's upper arms. Reaper showed no reaction to the crushing of his arms. His hands started turning dark red and then Musclehead lightened up his grip after a sharp word from Arzee. Gun Weasel, the SEAL's name for
the little man, just kept watch on Reaper and Deckert, no smile, no reaction, and no wavering of the big Desert Eagle in his hand.

Sure of his own strength, Musclehead was holding Reaper in what he considered a firm, unbreakable grip. But Reaper knew half a dozen ways he could disable Musclehead and break free in a moment. Gun Weasel was another matter entirely. After he had put away Reaper's and Deckert's guns, he had moved to a spot on the other side of the room where he would watch both men without having to turn his head. He knew the weapons he was holding gave him range, and he was using that distance as a safety measure.

Gun Weasel was more than six feet from Reaper. If the range had been four feet, Reaper may have had a chance. But more than six feet was too far away. One thing Reaper had was patience. The Suit wanted to talk about something. If this had been a robbery or some kind of straightforward murder, Reaper and Deckert would already be dead. So the SEAL stayed very alert, watching for his opportunity to show itself. It would come, and he could wait for it while listening to what Arzee had to say.

The thugs did not know how hopelessly they were outclassed. But Arzee knew, or at least suspected. The specter of sudden death was fluttering its leathery wings around the room, and that was making Arzee nervous. In the final analysis, Arzee was nothing more than a street thug who had made good. Now, he was looking at someone who was truly dangerous—a cleaned-up junkyard dog was looking at a timber wolf.

“I wouldn't want anything to happen to you until we concluded our business,” Arzee said to Reaper.

“This is not the way people normally conduct a business meeting,” Reaper said. “Besides, what possible business could I have with you?”

“Why, the gun business, of course,” Arzee said. “It seems I'm in need of someone with the proper materials. This weapon of yours is just the thing to aid some associates of mine. We already have the others packed away outside, I was just admiring this specimen as you came in.”

“You have got to be out of your fucking mind,” Reaper said. “What kind of crack-brained raghead idea is that? You catch something that affected your mind while out there butt-fucking these girls you brought with you?”

Reaper was speaking with deliberate crudity. If he could get this character to lose his temper and get in the line of fire between himself and Gun Weasel, that could make the opportunity Reaper needed to begin his move. But Arzee wasn't taking the bait.

“Please, Mr. Reaper,” Arzee said. “You are much more intelligent than that. I realize that you are not going to do business with me openly—you never would. I couldn't offer you enough money to do so. And these men aren't going to be what it takes to convince you to supply what I want. They could break you into pieces and you would try to spit in my eye with your last breath—and by the looks your partner there is giving me, he would do the same if not more.”

Deckert just sat in his chair and looked at Arzee. He also had lots of patience and would wait as long
as needed. Deckert knew the limitations his wheelchair gave him, but he also knew that if he could force an opening, Reaper would react to the chance. He didn't know these people from Adam, but it was obvious that at least the snappy dresser had history with Reaper. Suddenly, a cellular phone began to ring.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Arzee said with exaggerated courtesy as he reached into his pocket. Pulling out a phone, he snapped it open and listened to it for a moment.

“Ah, as I expected,” Arzee said. “It's for you, Mr. Reaper.”

Reaching out, he set the phone down on the carpet-covered counter and slid it to within reach of Reaper. Musclehead turned Reaper toward the counter and released his right arm.

“Careful now,” Arzee said to Reaper as Gun Weasel pointed the Desert Eagle and pulled up the M1911A1 with his left hand. “I'm certain that this call will be very important to you.”

Reaper's face showed no expression as he reached for the phone. He was puzzled as to just what might be going on, but he was also still watching for his opportunity. The voice at the other end of the phone caused Reaper's blood to run cold for a moment. A buzzing seemed to fill his ears as he heard a quavering voice at the other end of the line. A very familiar voice.

“Hello?” said Mary, with stark terror obvious in her tone. “Ted? Is that you?”

“Mary,” Reaper said with a catch in his voice, “are you all right?”

“They haven't hurt me,” she said. “Two men
wearing masks barged in just after you left. They waited until Ricky came home and took us both from the house. They put blindfolds on us and made me make some phone calls after driving us somewhere.

“Oh, Ted,” Mary said as her voice started to break down completely. “I'm so scared. Why is this happening to us? What do they want? Who are these peop…”

And the phone was cut off at the other end of the line.

“Before you make any unnecessary threats of retribution,” Arzee said, relaxing now as he felt he fully had the upper hand, “let me tell you that nothing is going to happen to your family as long as you do what I want.”

He reached forward and took the phone from the SEAL's unresisting hand. Folding it, Arzee slipped it into Reaper's shirt pocket.

“You will be contacted on that phone with further details,” Arzee said. “It's completely untraceable so there's no use trying to track me down with it. Only I have the number to it, so only I will call you on it. Please do not feel beholden for the small gift, I have another I assure you,” and he patted his inside jacket pocket.

“Do as I say and complete our business, and the last call will be directions for you to meet up with your family. Oh, and I really wouldn't bother calling in the police or FBI. It seems your wife called some people and told them that she was leaving the area with your son for a while. She didn't feel quite safe what with a pending divorce and all. So she took your son out of school, made herself unavailable for
work, and, for all intents and purposes, has disappeared for a while. Seems having an ex-SEAL for a husband makes a woman being frightened for herself quite understandable to some people.

“So, even if you go to the police,” Arzee said with a broad smile, “the chances are that they will blame you for her being missing.

“And the words of a fellow veteran,” Arzee said as he turned to Deckert, “would at best be discounted. If not, well, I'm sure you can figure out that very little evidence will be found. And you can't be sure just where that evidence would point.”

“It seems you have all the bases covered,” Reaper said calmly. “What do you want me to do?”

If Arzee had known the big SEAL at all, he would have recognized that soft tone of voice as being the warning of a very dangerous situation. Paxtun hadn't known that in Bosnia, and Arzee didn't know it now. Reaper was fluid and smooth, and ready to explode into action, with nothing showing as a warning at all.

“I will be leaving first,” Arzee said, “just so there are no misunderstandings. Neither of my two companions here know where your family will be staying, so they couldn't tell you anything if they wanted to.

“After I am safely away, you and your partner here will set to work making more of these nasty pieces of firepower. You have three days, seventy-two hours from now, to produce four more of these weapons along with a half-dozen of these ammunition cassettes for each of them. I have been told that is a reasonable number and shouldn't be any problem for you to make.

“And I assure you, if any problems do arise, you
had better solve them instantly or someone else very dear to you will pay the penalty. You simply deliver the weapons and we will have concluded our business. Your family will be returned to you and we will go on our way.”

“How do I know I can trust you to return my family no matter what I give you?” Reaper said.

“You don't,” Arzee said with a nasty smile. “But your options are very limited. I suggest you and your partner plan on some long work days. Make a big pot of coffee.”

With that, Arzee headed toward the door. Even Gun Weasel was more relaxed as he let Arzee pass through the line of fire between him and Reaper, dropping down the Eagle's muzzle as the man went by. But he still had the .45 aimed at Deckert, so that was not the opportunity Reaper was looking for.

Musclehead was still holding Reaper by the arms, though his grip on the SEAL's right arm was very light. Arzee went out the door and the men all heard the sound of a 454 cubic inch Big Block V-8 fire up a few moments later. The rumble of the engine's 270 horsepower quickly faded as the Corvette moved up the driveway and turned west down the main road.

“So, little man,” Deckert said as he looked at Gun Weasel. “Your boss left you holding the bag while he made sure of his getaway?”

Gun Weasel turned and looked coldly at the big man in the wheelchair.

“Feels neat doesn't it?” Deckert said. “You come along just so that you could look down at somebody shorter than you? That must be it. Little man, great
big gun. You probably need such a stupid gun because you hit like a pussy. I wonder just what you're trying to compensate for? Short stature or short something else?”

With a sudden movement, Gun Weasel stepped forward and snapped out with his left hand, backhanding the steel slide of the .45 across the left side of Deckert's head. The blow rocked the big man in his wheelchair as blood spurted from a cut on his left ear. It was just by luck that the cushioning of the ear had kept the blow from breaking the squamous portion of the temporal bone of Deckert's skull.

As the big man slumped in the chair, Gun Weasel suddenly laid the .45 down on the counter to his right and grabbed the armrest of the chair. Twisting and lifting hard, Gun Weasel flipped up the chair and dumped Deckert to the ground. Deckert lay slumped and unmoving as Gun Weasel panted at the exertion. It had been a much heavier chair than he had expected. Turning, he faced Reaper—less than four feet away.

Without a single outward sign of preparation or tension, Reaper exploded, suddenly snap-kicking Gun Weasel square in the groin. The top of Reaper's foot drove Gun Weasel's scrotum up into his pubic arch, the testicles just missing being crushed against the juncture of the ossa innominata bones of the pelvis.

The intense pain of the blow drove a cloud of blackness through Gun Weasel's brain as green and yellow lights flashed in front of his eyes. The small man wasn't dead, but he was going to wish he was when the blessing of unconsciousness wore off. He
slipped to the ground as the huge Desert Eagle pistol fell from his nerveless fingers.

As part of the same action with which he snap-kicked Gun Weasel, Reaper shoved back with his left leg, forcing himself back against Musclehead. The SEAL's powerful leg smashed Musclehead's back against the shelving units on the wall behind him. A steel reloading press extending out from a shelf smashed into the thug's back, bruising his right kidney and forcing him to throw up his right hand in shock.

Reaper smashed back with an open-fist backhand blow from his right arm, striking Musclehead above his right eye, splitting open his eyebrow. Reversing the motion of his hand and arm, Reaper snapped his right hand into his right front pants pocket.

A practiced grip secured the Emerson CQC-7BW between the thumb and first two fingers of Reaper's hand. Continuing the motion, Reaper smoothly drew the folding knife back, pulling it out and down while dragging the back of the blade against the rear seam of the pocket. The Wave, a small semicircular notch on the back of the blade—the
W
in the identifier of the knife—completed its intended purpose by snagging against the rear seam of the pocket and forcing the blade to open against the resistance. The blade pulled open and was secured by the liner-lock snapping into place.

Reaper pulled his hand forward and up, still holding the blade between his thumb and two fingers, allowing the weight of the open blade to pivot the knife into a point-down position. Grabbing hold of the handle in a hammer grip with his thumb over the
pommel for additional leverage, Reaper pivoted on his left foot while pulling his left arm away from Musclehead's weakened grip.

Grabbing the injured man's arm, Reaper slammed it down on the carpeted top of the counter to his left. In a continuing motion, Reaper drove the knife down in an icepick stab—right through Musclehead's forearm.

The angular Tanto point and slicing chisel edge of the blade slipped through skin, fascia, and muscle—missing the major blood vessels and tendons though it nicked the posterior interosseous vein as it passed between the radius and ulna bones. The tip of the blade sliced through the carpet that padded the top of the counter and sank deeply into the wood beneath. The knife had penetrated so deeply that part of the grip was driven into the wound.

For such a large man, Musclehead made a very high-pitched scream as he sank to his knees, stopping short as his arm pulled against the embedded knife. The entire action, from the start of the snap kick to the blade sinking into the wood, had not lasted two seconds.