New Flash Fiction

The M93s were both gorgeous. Whereas the AKs had been battle-worn, the M93s still smelled of packaging oil from their ride over here from the Baltics. Comparatively long and slim, if a Kalasnikov was a pickup, these were Fornula-One racers.

A check of bore size and quality along with some basic cleaning were my first steps. The action itself would take a few hours to assess. Mods would take another few hours – undersizing the firing pin just enough to cause a misfire about six shots in.

These were serious weapons. Anyone wanting to send that kind of alloy downrange would squeeze off a few practice rounds, but not enough to take the gun out of the window if it was in. They wouldn’t want to take their shoulder off, either.

They’d kick like a pair of rented mules. . .

Looking at the situation realistically, it seemed reasonable to assume the misfire could occur during that practice, which, on the whole, wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened, either.

Whoever was buying these from a guy like Vlad wasn’t going deer hunting with a 50 cal. He was buying them because he wanted to kill people from far enough away that he wouldn’t get caught. They weren’t apt to take it well when that weapon failed on them.

After all, assassins assassinate – it’s in their name.

With a little luck, Vlad or Nick Sears’s extermination was a given. The retribution of criminals was usually pretty harsh. Maybe we’d land a discredited professional killer, and, if things really, really fell our way, maybe their employer would come out of the dark and take action.

A shipment of AKs hitting the street that would have landed out there anyway and a night’s hard work was a small price to pay for the hate and discontent I was about to sew.