Chapter Twenty-Three
Michael
I sat in front of the desk and looked at Cap in disbelief. “To who?”
Seeing him sit in my chair seemed odd. He kicked his heels onto the edge of the desk, folded his arms in front of his chest, and grinned. “Does it matter?”
It did matter. I shot a quick glare at his feet and then shifted my eyes to meet his. “It sure as fuck does.”
He looked away. “I knew you’d say that.”
“Well, if you want to sell AR-15s to the New People’s Army in the Philippines, I wouldn’t support it. They’re a communist support party. On the other hand, if you wanted to—”
He turned to face me. “They’re going to Panama.”
“Panama?”
“Some new rebel group.”
“What’s their ideology?”
“Anti-communism, anti-drug trafficking, and anti-violence. They’re going to rise up against Colombia’s National Liberation Army.”
“How strong are they?”
“Two thousand right now, might be three before lunch. It’s a pretty big deal.”
“Three thousand?”
He nodded.
“What are they looking for?”
“Right now? Twenty-five hundred.”
My jaw dropped. “Twenty-five hundred ARs?”
“Yep.”
It would potentially be the largest gun deal my organization had ever brokered. After regaining my composure, I struggled to hide my grin. “Price?”
“Well, that’s where it gets sticky. They get marked up going through Mexico, and after we slip through Guatemala and El Salvador without paying taxes, we get hit again in Nicaragua. The rebels are paying fifteen hundred US. We’re getting thirteen hundred.”
I swallowed hard. Depending on where we bought the receivers, it could potentially be over a million in profit. Hopefully, Cap had a plan to get the weapons built for less than seven hundred each.
“How sure is this deal?”
“He just left. We’re his only contact.”
“Mark? From Texas? The guy who bought the MP-5s in 2014?”
“Yep.”
“What are you thinking for receivers?”
He raised both eyebrows. “You might not like it.”
“I’m listening.”
“We buy fifty Ghost Gunners, twenty-five hundred 80% lowers, and twenty-five hundred uppers. If we run fourteen hours a day in production, we can get ’em done in about three weeks without any hiccups. Figure a four-man crew ’round one long-as-fuck shift. One of ’em will just be taking receivers in and out of the machines. One sorting parts, and two assembling. The man on the machine will test-fire the weapons afterward.”
A Ghost Gunner was a CNC machine that manufactured the receivers for a Ghost Gun, which was a gun without any traceable elements. There were no serial numbers, no registration paperwork, and no way to trace it to a manufacturer. The process of making a firearm with the machine was legal, as long as the weapon was retained by the person who manufactured it.
Selling Ghost Guns, however, was illegal.
“That’s a line we have yet to cross, Cap. You know I don’t like the laws, but—”
“We can get them out the door for three hundred each, including our labor cost. The upper receivers will be used military, but excellent condition, and refinished.”
His statement had garnered every ounce of my attention. “Excuse me? Three hundred?”
“Getting the 80% lowers for thirty, and Snowman found a guy in the armory at Pendleton that’ll slip us the uppers for one-fifty. Ghost Gunners are fifteen hundred each normally, and I got ’em down to twelve ’cause we’re lookin’ at buying fifty of ‘em.”
All of a sudden, I didn’t care about the laws. “A thousand each, profit? Out the door?”
He kicked his feet off the desk, leaned forward, and locked eyes with me. “What do you think now?”
“I think I need to talk to Anthony.”
He relaxed against the back of the chair and grinned. “Be sure you mention who put this deal together. I’m plannin’ on getting in the good graces of the man with this deal.”
I let out a sigh. “A deal like this—”
“A deal like this?” he said with a laugh. “A deal like this would make a puppy pull a freight train.”
I didn’t know about that, but it sure made me reconsider what I’d always felt was moral.
* * *
Anthony dropped the ledger. It hit the desk with a thud. His eyes met mine. “Tell me again, slowly. I thought you said twenty-five hundred at 1k profit each.”
“You heard right. The problem is this: The receivers of the weapons will be manufactured in a manner that is currently contrary to law. I’ve always tried to walk a fine line, but one that is legal in the eyes of the law.”
“The guns will be manufactured illegally?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Would we be selling them to terrorists?”
“No.”
He stood. “Do you support the cause of the men who will receive them?”
“I do.”
His eyes fell to his desk, and after a long pause, he looked up. “What’s the prison sentence for murdering an ATF agent?”
The question seemed odd. “For me? With the RICO Act, it’s life in prison.”
“But you didn’t hesitate to kill two of them. Why?”
“They got in the way of what we were doing. They were a threat to the family.”
“They got in the way of a cause you believed in?” He walked around the corner of the desk. “Were your actions, at the time, legal?”
“No.”
“What’s the prison sentence if you got caught manufacturing the weapons?”
“Sixty months.”
“We’re not selling ice cream cones. This is a criminal organization. We break laws.” He shrugged. “Sixty months for a cause you believe in.”
I chuckled. He was making a good point. “So, you want to do it?”
“How much risk is involved? What are the chances of getting caught?”
“Caught manufacturing? Roughly zero. In transporting the weapons to Texas? There’s the risk associated with being pulled over and having the truck searched.”
“Have him pick them up. Make it part of the deal.”
“We typically deliver.”
“You typically deliver legal weapons, no?”
I grinned. “That’s correct.”
“Have him pick them up. Make sure he knows who he’s doing business with. If he gets caught, he found them in the street. If he talks, tell him I’ll kill his entire family.”
“So, it’s decided?”
He turned up his palms, and raised both eyebrows. “It’s your business. The decision’s yours.”
I’d never wanted to please anyone but myself. Now that I was part of the family, and close to marrying into a family, I felt a burning desire to please Anthony.
“I’ll have him pick up the weapons,” I said.
He patted me on the shoulder. “You make me proud. Always.”