|Brisco Waters, Private Eye (Part 4) (standard:mystery, 2459 words) [4/5] show all parts|
|Author: Red Storm||Added: Jul 26 2001||Views/Reads: 1267/968||Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|All hell breaks loose in the Brisco Waters saga as our hero is kidnapped and held against his will at the docks. Finally, everything becomes crystal clear...but is it too late?|
It was around 3:00a.m., and I was sure that the company I was riding with was bad news. I could only hope that the patrol car from the alleyway had seen the commotion and tailed us. If it had, our driver sure as hell hadn’t noticed, his calm and collected demeanor never showing the slightest hint of nervousness as he puffed away on an over-sized cigar. The rain outside was beating down hard, and the blackness of night only made the situation seem more pestilent. The car was moving at an average speed, sloshing through the wasteland of abandoned piers and streets along the docks, never once hesitating. I could tell these men were professionals, never showing an ounce of remorse or anxiety, hardened by actions that made this trip seem all too routine. We approached a sullen and boarded-up warehouse, which showed no signs of life from the outside. My gut cramped into a spaghetti ball of nerves as two men emerged from the shadows and opened the large front garage door. Inside, I could now see, the place was stocked to capacity with large wood crates. A dozen men in factory clothes were busy moving the crates and stacking them accordingly, dividing the great place into numerous maze-like hallways and passages of the containers. Nobody seemed to pay attention as our sedan pulled into the warehouse, to the center of the building. As the car jerked to a stop, the large garage door fell with a loud metallic clang. “Get out.” The driver commanded, and I was dragged out of the car by two large brutes who savagely tied me into a wooden chair with heavy ropes. Smaller ropes were wrapped around my wrists and ankles, burning into my skin each time I struggled against them. The place smelled of grease, which struck me as odd. I tried to guess what the contents of the mysterious crates were, but it wasn’t until one was accidentally dropped and broken open until I figured it out. The two workmen jumped away from the box that they had just shattered, its contents spilling out onto the concrete floor. Machine-guns, I finally realized. Tommy guns, no less. The guns, ammunition, and accessories were packed neatly into every crate in the room, carefully being prepared to ship. But to where, exactly? “Damn, you two.” It was the voice of one of the men who had kidnapped me from the casino. He walked from behind a column of crates to my left side and grabbed one of the Thompsons from the floor. “I told you to be careful with these things!” He screamed, drawing the attention of everyone working in the place. Immediately he yanked the hammer on the gun and leveled it at one of the men who had caused the accident. Ignoring the man’s pleas and screams, the mobster blasted away at the incompetent man, landing over forty rounds into the man’s chest and head. The body fell to the cold floor, a river of blood spreading out for all to see. “Clean this mess up and get back to work!” The mobster screamed at the other man who had helped cause the accident. The workman quickly began executing the orders. “This is one less crate to be sent to our buyers. Tell Dominic to mark it on his inventory sheet and explain to the Germans what happened.” He called to another workman out of my line of sight. So that was it. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. These men were packing and shipping Thompson machine-guns to the German army. Not since the Great War had the Germans had access to this kind of weaponry, and then it had been used to wage war with allied countries. Surely this was a mistake, but I was now noticing the large word ‘BONN’ stamped onto the sides of the crates in black ink. So that was it. The American forces had refused a contract to buy Thompsons, this was common knowledge, but the Germans were interested and these low-life thugs were supplying. Sons of bitches. “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing...” I muttered as the mobster approached my chair. He jerked the barrel of the machine-gun level with my forehead and started to say something, but was cut off. “Get that thing out of his face!” Came a deep roar, a voice I recognized immediately. “Well, well, hello old friend. I never saw this day coming.” The large Click here to read the rest of this story (176 more lines)
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