Blast. Andrew Kim

around, Brown dropped his ice cream and climbed in. The car instantly took off, drove past the parking lot, and headed for the street. Picking up speed, the Toyota sped toward the city center.

      Behind the wheel was a scrawny, middle-aged fellow with a sharp, piercing look about him. He glanced at the rearview mirror every other second. Making sure there’s no tail, thought Brown. The goon cornered Brown on the far right of the seat and began to quickly and professionally search his pockets and tap his clothes, feeling for a wire.

      “Take it easy,” Brown growled.

      “Gotta check you out, bud. We don’t know you.”

      “Are you Deuce?”

      “No, “said the goon tersely, fishing out the knife mounted on Brown’s belt. Turning it over, he handed it to Brown, then curtly told the driver, “Clean.”

      “I don’t know you either,” Brown remarked. “I agreed to meet with Deuce.”

      “You’ll meet him,” said the goon, and gave Brown a tablet computer.

      “What’s this for?”

      “What guns do you need? Take your pick.”

      Brown was amazed, the more so when he turned on the tablet. Before him was an already opened photo gallery, showing dozens of photographs of pistols, which could be enlarged for close inspection.

      “A catalog? What’s on sale today? Any house specials?”

      The goon grimaced and said nothing. The driver kept looking in the rearview mirror. The car raced along the busy street at high speed, weaving from lane to lane.

      They did not realize that all the available cops in the city police force were taking part in the operation. Five carloads of detectives were following right behind them, switching every half mile. Ten more cars had scattered throughout the area at the start of the operation and were listening in on the police wave. As soon as the Toyota left the supermarket, unmarked police cars started moving on parallel streets, so they could all converge at the right moment. A police helicopter coordinated the surveillance, with a cop on board carefully watching through binoculars as the subject sped along the streets.

      “Attention everybody, subject is merging into the far left lane. Turning onto Duval Street.”

      “Car 10—15. Copy that.”

      “11—8 and 10—12, proceed along Junior Street.”

      “Subject is moving east toward Walton Street. Over.”

      “10—16, don’t get so close to him, move over one lane.”

      And in the Toyota, which dozens of policemen were following in person and via the airwaves, Brown handed the tablet back to the goon. The screen had a Sig P210 on it, magnified to the actual size.

      “Here! This!”

      “Ten?”

      “Ammo too. Two boxes apiece, so twenty boxes.”

      “We can do it today. You got the money?”

      “Not on me, of course. I’ll bring it once I see the goods.”

      “You can transfer the money using Ray Pay,” said the goon, giving Brown a piece of paper with numbers scribbled on it. “Here’s the number. When we see the money in the account, we’ll deliver the guns.”

      “Yeah, right,” Brown exclaimed. “I wasn’t born yesterday, man. When I see the guns, I’ll give you the money.”

      “We don’t do business face to face, get it?” the goon growled in annoyance. “Delivery only. You got a problem with that?”

      “Take it easy, okay?” Brown’s mind was racing. “How about this? You show me the guns. If everything is in order, I’ll call my man, and he’ll deposit the money into your account.”

      The goon glanced at the driver, who, seeing him in the rearview mirror, gave a barely perceptible nod. The goon relaxed. “Yeah, that should work. We’ll call you.”

      The car pulled over to the curb. The goon gestured at the door, indicating that Brown should get out.

      “When?”

      “We’ll call you.”

      Brown got out and the Toyota raced off. Behind it, driving at high speed, was a nondescript sedan; Brown caught a glimpse of a familiar detective behind the wheel. The man was speaking into the walkie-talkie: “They’ve split up; subject is heading north along Cross Road.”

      Following a jeep there were a couple more cars, and in one of them, Brown saw another policeman in plain clothes. Then Chambers” car pulled up alongside Brown, and the passenger door opened. Sitting down beside him, Brown said, “It wasn’t Deuce. One of his people, but not him.”

      As the car pulled off, Chambers handed Brown a thin folder that was lying on the dashboard.

      “Is Deuce’s real name Matt Highley? We found his file, here it is.”

      Now Brown was really puzzled: The goon’s driver was looking at him from the mug shot in the police file.

      After that, everything went haywire.

      The police kept following Deuce and the goon’s car, which seemed to be circling around aimlessly. The helicopter kept on coordinating the detectives, maintaining its distance and a good height, with a running narrative by walkie-talkie: “Subject is turning right on Heuman Street. 9—17, take a left. Over.”

      The Toyota kept driving along. Deuce scowled into the rearview mirror. He felt something was up, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His intuition had never deceived him, so Deuce had learned to trust it, always and everywhere – that’s why he was still in business, rather than rotting away in prison. One of the cars behind him aroused his suspicion. But, casting another glance in the mirror, Deuce saw it turn left.

      “What’s wrong?” growled the goon, looking back.

      “I don’t know yet. It doesn’t seem like we’ve got a tail, but… I don’t know,” Deuce replied sourly. “I think something’s wrong.”

      Chambers and Brown listened carefully to the radio chatter.

      “Why they are they running in circles? Chambers wondered nervously.

      “They’re checking.”

      “Everything go okay?”

      “I did everything as we agreed. They didn’t have any reason to suspect anything,” Brown replied, trying to think whether he had slipped up somewhere. It didn’t seem so. Yes, he had been unyielding, but that was rule number one in undercover work. There is nothing more suspicious than a buyer who agrees to everything immediately just to make the deal happen.

      Voices kept chirping out of the walkie-talkie: “They’re turning toward Kirby Street. Heading down toward Mason.”

      “9—8, take them starting at Mason.”

      “Rodger.”

      “10—13, take a left.”

      Brown quickly looked through Deuce’s file. “Two arrests and a year in prison for possession. No operational information about where he fits into the business. This guy is really good.”

      “There’s a highway patrol car on Kinsey Street,” the radio croaked. “Tell them to leave the buggers alone.”

      His eyes still on the rearview mirror, Deuce turned onto Kinsey. Just ahead, at the next intersection, was a police cruiser lying in ambush. Diddling his radar gun, perhaps, Deuce sneered under his breath. The second patrolman was walking around the car. They were still 100 yards away when the patrolman on the outside mumbled something into his walkie-talkie and hurried back into the car. But before that, he managed to cast a quick glance in the direction of Deuce’s Toyota.

      Deuce