Wildfire (2 page)

George Hoffsteadler was waiting for him in front of the middle table.

"Good to see you again, Riser," Hoffsteadler said in a neutral voice as he stepped forward and took the man's hand in a firm grip.

George Hoffsteadler was well aware that "Riser" was not the name that his huge and intimidating client had used on his previous visits, but that didn't concern him in the least. Especially since
he
hadn't bothered to use his own given name in over forty-five years. In point of fact, Hoffsteadler actually found it preferable that his customers used varying pseudonyms in making their highly illegal and therefore extremely lucrative purchases. If nothing else, it greatly simplified his already minimal record-keeping system.

George Hoffsteadler was an extremely tall and slender man with elongated fingers, limbs, and facial features of an individual who appeared to have been born on a basketball court. In fact, most people would have been astounded to learn that Hoffsteadler, as far back as he could remember, had never held a basketball in his life. Born and raised deep in the West Virginia mountains, where pieces of flat ground were at a premium, George Hoffsteadler and his brothers had quickly discovered more profitable interests to pursue than mere sports.

Completely self-confident by nature, and paranoid only out of professional habit, Hoffsteadler was one of a very small number of people who were not immediately intimidated by the arrival of the man who now called himself "Riser."

One, because at six feet and eleven inches, George Hoffsteadler was able to stare eye-to-eye at his huge and menacing client without having to look up.

And two, because he was certifiably crazy.

George Hoffsteadler had been an illicit gun dealer for nearly fifty-one of his sixty-five years. And in that time, aside from a general description or two, he had never once showed up in an FBI or ATF report, nor had he ever been convicted of a state or local weapons violation. Mostly because the few people who might otherwise have been willing to testify against Hoffsteadler and his gun-manufacturing brothers were absolutely convinced that they would disappear within twenty-four hours if they ever chose to do so. Three local men had already suffered that fate.

Hoffsteadler considered his lack of a police record to be one of the major personal accomplishments of his life, and one that he fully intended to maintain for the remainder of his illicit career. Which was why he continued to pay top dollar to employ four of the most lethal combat shooters he could find in the area as personal bodyguards and "general keepers of the rules," as he put it.

One of the bodyguards was standing behind the main display table. A second was sitting in an enclosed target-control console directly behind the firing positions. A third was positioned in a homemade M-60 machine gun turret, constructed out of welded steel plates and bulletproof glass, that overlooked the entire range. The fourth was standing eight feet behind Riser with the outer edge of her left shoulder lined up with the inner edge of his right arm.

Hoffsteadler's two younger brothers, both highly skilled gunsmiths, sat at the small portable workbench, dressed alike in white jeans and denim aprons and supporting nearly identical handlebar mustaches. In front of them, on the oil-stained wooden surface, was a wide array of precision tools, cleaning rods, gun oil, and cloth patches. They were prepared to make a wide range of adjustments to their handcrafted weapons on the spot. Or, if necessary, to take them back into their fully equipped machine shop for a complete retooling. Like their older brother, both men wore Beretta semiautomatics in matching hand-tooled leather shoulder holsters.

"You got lucky," the gun dealer said. "We finished the last piece on your order yesterday evening, and one of the other buyers can't make it today anyway, so what I'm going to do is cancel out that penalty. I think you'll like what the boys did on this batch. Take a look for yourself."

He gestured with his hand at the display table, the entire surface of which was covered with a long piece of black velvet. Six pistols and two submachine guns, each finished in a non-glare black matte, were arranged in the center of the table, along with stacks of clearly marked magazines and several boxes of ammunition for each weapon. There were two replacement barrels for each of the pistols.

All six pistols appeared to have been designed around the standard 92FS Large Frame Beretta semiautomatic pistols that Hoffsteadler and all his staff carried, except that these particular handcrafted weapons were approximately twenty percent larger in the grip. They were also fitted with precision-machined silencers of varying lengths and thickness, each in a matching non-glare, matte black finish.

The submachine guns appeared to have been modeled after the Heckler & Koch Model HK54 submachine gun. They, too, were fitted with precision-machined silencers that accounted for almost two thirds of the total barrel length.

"As requested, one of the pistols is chambered for the .22 long rifle, one in 9mm Parabellum, and the remainder for the 10mm FBI standard round. Both submachine guns are chambered for 10mm also, which turns out to be a real nice matchup. As you might expect, the silencers are most effective with the .22 long rifle and the 9mm, although I think you'll like what we did with the 10mm stuff," the elderly gun dealer added with undisguised pride.

Wordlessly, Riser stepped forward and examined the 10mm ammunition boxes, noting that each one of the white cardboard packages was marked with the warning: Restricted. For Law Enforcement Use Only. Opening up one of the boxes, he randomly selected and examined three of the lethal cartridges and nodded in apparent satisfaction.

Then he picked up one of the pistols chambered for the 10mm FBI cartridge. After evaluating the enlarged grip, weight, and balance of the weapon, and confirming the silk-smooth action that was characteristic of firearms manufactured by the Hoffsteadler brothers, Riser looked over at the bodyguard and held up four fingers.

The bodyguard nodded, selected four rounds of 10mm ammunition from an open box, fed them into a magazine, and handed it to Riser, along with a pair of ear protectors. He tossed the ear protectors aside and examined the magazine. Then he stepped forward to the leftmost firing position, loaded and armed the pistol, held it at his side in his left hand, and growled the word, "Fifteen."

The bodyguard at the console thumbed a button, and a man-sized target popped up fifteen meters away in the first firing lane.

In one smooth motion Riser brought the pistol up to shoulder level and fired twice. The heavy bullets punched through the target dead-center, head and chest.

"Twenty-five," Riser said as he switched the pistol to his right hand.

The first target dropped away as a second target popped up at the twenty-five-meters distance. Again, two holes appeared dead center, head and chest. The baffling in the precision-machined silencer had effectively reduced the velocity of the 10mm round to subsonic levels, producing a gunshot that sounded more like the
thunk
of a small ball peen hammer striking a four-by-four post.

Riser nodded in satisfaction, walked back to the display table, set the smoking semiautomatic pistol down on the black velvet, and picked up the one chambered for the .22 long rifle.

In seven more sequences, a total of twenty-eight more rounds struck dead center, head and chest, the last group with the select switch of the submachine gun on single fire. The woman bodyguard was watching intently now, intrigued by this huge man who had such a gentle and deadly touch with firearms, but still vaguely frightened by the cold and deadly expression in his eyes. She understood now why George Hoffsteadler had placed all four of his bodyguards on duty for this sale.

"Are you satisfied?" Hoffsteadler asked as Riser set the submachine gun back down on the display table.

"Yes." Riser nodded curtly. "What's that over there?" He gestured with his head in the direction of the second display table.

"Oh, yeah, I thought you might like to see one of our new products, the first of a new line." George Hoffsteadler smiled as he walked around behind the second table. Reaching forward with what appeared to be loving care, he opened the ornate wooden case.

Inside the case was a weapon unlike anything Riser had ever seen before.

At first glance it looked like a short and extremely heavy double-barreled shotgun. But when Riser walked over to the end of the table and saw the deep rifling grooves in the two cavernous stainless-steel barrels, he knew better.

No
, he smiled to himself,
definitely not a shotgun.

"May I?" he asked, and then, when Hoffsteadler nodded, reached forward and gently picked up the weapon in both hands.

"Something special we made for one of our hunting friends," the elderly gun dealer said. "A classic four-bore, double-barreled, break-open rifle. Machined out of a solid block of weapons-grade stainless steel. Stock and grip are solid American walnut. The barrels are one inch in diameter and twenty-four inches long. Puts out a nineteen-hundred grain slug at seventeen-hundred-and-fifty feet per second."

Riser stopped examining the weapon long enough to blink in surprise and then stare at Hoffsteadler.

"Why?" he asked.

"Guaranteed to go in one end of a bull elephant and out the other without stopping for lunch." Hoffsteadler grinned.

Riser shrugged indifferently, then went back to examining the weapon.

"Twenty-five pounds, total weight, and enough of a kick to put even somebody your size right on their ass if they're not careful," the gun dealer went on. Then he paused for a tantalizing moment. "You want to give her a try?"

Riser looked up at Hoffsteadler, paused, and then nodded.

The gun dealer gestured to the bodyguard at the middle display table, who reached down and brought up a wooden ammunition box with a hinged top. Hoffsteadler opened the top, selected two of the gleaming four-inch-long brass cartridges, and handed them over to his huge client. "One's a solid slug, the other's double-ought buckshot," he said. 'You're talking a hundred bucks a shot here, so try not to miss."

Then Hoffsteadler reached down for the discarded ear protectors. "I think you're going to want ears on, this time," he added as he adjusted the headset over the man's ears.

Riser walked over to the number-five firing position, instinctively aware that Hoffsteadler and all four of his bodyguards had gone on alert. Ignoring them, he broke open the breech of the weapon, fed the two heavy cartridges into the side-by-side chambers—buckshot on the left and slug on the right—shut the breech, released the thumb safety, and then stared at the target.

From his position, the six fifty-five gallon barrels were lined up directly behind each other. All he could see was the front of the first barrel and the tops of all six. He started to raise the gun, but then hesitated and turned his head to look back at the display table area.

"Clear?"

Hoffsteadler nodded and waved him the go-ahead signal.

Returning his attention to the line of barrels, Riser placed his left foot forward, braced his back foot, and raised the double-barreled rifle to his shoulder. He took time to adjust the butt of the weapon tight against his thick, muscular shoulder. Then he slid his finger over the right forward trigger, aimed down the short barrel, and squeezed.

Even with the ear protectors on, the concussive effects of the explosion within the contained firing range were stunning.

The recoil slammed Riser's massive upper body backward, but he kept his eyes open as he absorbed the shock, wanting to see the effect of the impact. It was every bit as spectacular as he had expected.

The immediate impression was that all six drums had somehow managed to explode in sequence, each detonation occurring a microsecond after the previous one. The transfer of energy from the massive slug to the inert masses of water blew all six lids and about two hundred and fifty gallons of water skyward. The rest of the water seemed to disappear in an explosive cloud around the six violently ruptured metal barrels.

Nodding to himself, he walked over to firing lane number six, paused, brought the massive weapon up to hip level, centering his aim at the middle point where the edges of all four drums came together, and then squeezed the rearmost left-side trigger.

This time the four barrels seemed to disintegrate into a pyrotechnic display of metal shards and vaporized water.

Riser saw motion out of the corner of his eye. It was the guard in the M-60 machine-gun turret, holding his right hand in a thumbs-up position and grinning.

Smiling to himself for the first time that day, Riser walked over to Hoffsteadler. Being careful, because the breech and barrels of the stainless steel weapon were now extremely hot to the touch, he placed the burned powder-smeared rifle in the gun dealer's waiting hands.

"How much?"

"Seventy thousand," Hoffsteadler replied. "Hundred bucks a round, slug or buckshot, but I'll give you a twenty-percent break in case lots of fifty."

"I'll take it. And two hundred rounds, half and half," he added in a deep, dispassionate voice.

"I thought you might like it, but you understand we're talking a minimum of six months for delivery?"

"No, I want this one," Riser said simply.

"Sorry, but the customer who ordered this one has a hot date with an African bull elephant all lined up and ready to go." Hoffsteadler smiled. "He asked first, so he gets number one. Number two is all yours."

"Fair enough." Riser shrugged. "I have to get going. Can you pack up my merchandise?"

"Sure. Valerie, you want to help me . . ."

In turning to respond to Hoffsteadler's instructions, the woman bodyguard momentarily lost track of her position relative to the right arm of her huge and fearsome charge.

In that instant Riser turned and drove his fist into her exposed solar plexus, driving the air out of her lungs. As he did so, he spun her around, snapped open the restraining strap, yanked the 9mm Beretta semiautomatic out of her unsecured hip holster, and then sent her stumbling headfirst into the display table, where the second bodyguard was already reaching for his pistol.