The ghost gun, p.1
The Ghost Gun, page 1
The Ghost Gun
Ghost Bullets, Book 1
Gareth Lewis
Copyright 2023 Gareth Lewis
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Any piracy of this work shall result in the forfeiture of the pirate's soul to the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Language Note
This novel is written in British English, so contains spelling differences from American English.
Chapter 1
It looked unexceptional. Just a gun, easily mistaken for a Glock. It felt coldly solid in Jimmy’s hand. The dull metal sheen looked aged, but not too badly worn to trust.
It held no branding or any kind of identifying mark, and no hint they’d been erased. It was a ghost gun. Intended to be untraceable. That didn’t explain the security.
Hasty footsteps interrupted him. That’d be the security guards. All three, from the sounds of it. Too close to slip out before they arrived.
He lay the gun atop a glass case and stepped away, so as not to spook them into stupidity. He waited in a relaxed pose.
The three security guards rushed into view outside the vault door, two men and a woman. One had his Glock 19 drawn, but pointed down, while the others had hands on their holstered pieces.
That they didn’t immediately open fire was good. He preferred to do the same, as starting off shooting felt crass. While it didn’t seem likely he’d get out of here without killing anyone, he was an investigator, not a gun thug.
Their nervous energy discouraged sudden moves. He wouldn’t raise his hands, though, even if guns were aimed at him. You had to have standards. Or pride. The two were easily confused.
‘Good reactions,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not great, though. I’ve been here over five minutes. Good that you arrived together, rather than individually, but I hope that wasn’t what delayed you. Did I trigger an alarm? Opening the case, possibly?’
He’d bypassed an alarm on the vault door, so the cases were likely, despite his having checked.
Calling it a vault might be charitable. The room was reasonably secure, but a bulky metal door did not a vault make. Not when it took only a purloined access card to get in.
The walls shared the clean, metallic sheen of the door. There were no deposit boxes or compartments, just sealed glass cases on the tables that lined the room, displaying an incongruous array of mundane objects.
‘Who are you?’ asked the middle of the three guards. He was pumped, but not a full muscle-head. His tone matched his aggressive gaze, and it was reassuring that their semi-professional bearing didn’t prevent them asking dumb questions.
They stood just outside the doorway in their dark grey security blazers, the Mayweather Technologies company insignia branding their left breasts. The anteroom was empty apart from some undecorated tables opposite the door. The walls were the same institutional close-to-white as the rest of the place.
The doorway was wide, but they’d have trouble standing in it side by side. The other guards stood slightly behind him and to either side, half-covered by the sides of the doorway. The man to the left was the one with his gun drawn. There was no amateurish panicking or waving the piece around. Their nervous tension was predictable, though the anger in their eyes was odd. As though they were offended by his presence.
‘I’m the guy who broke into this room,’ said Jimmy.
He couldn’t bring himself to call it a vault, seeing little of value.
The cases contained stuff like a music box, spectacles, a cell phone, a coin, a torch, and the gun he’d taken out to inspect. Were they meant to be art pieces? He’d expected something electronic from a technology company.
The cell phone looked like a generic burner he could get at any corner store. Any high-end tech it contained was expertly hidden behind an unexceptional façade.
The gun at least hinted at the illegal activity Mayweather Technologies was allegedly engaged in, though it was the first evidence he’d found.
Jimmy had started to think he’d been lied to. That would go badly for someone, hopefully not him. But there was no sign of illegality that’d impinge on his employer’s interest. There were a few subcontractors who dealt with arms, but the local market wasn’t large enough to justify the risk with low end stuff.
He was missing something. Like why apparent bric-a-brac would require a vault. He doubted he’d get answers here.
‘How did you get in here?’ asked the spokesman.
‘With a card,’ he said.
The tension eased at the suggestion he had authorisation to be here. And he didn’t react as they’d expect a thief to. They had yet to abandon their weapons, though. The woman sent a nervous glance at the gun on the case.
‘I’ll need more than that,’ said the spokesman.
‘With a security card?’ said Jimmy. Though goading armed idiots may be unwise.
The spokesman frowned, his deep brows suiting the look. ‘You want to speak to us, or the cops?’
If their employer had nothing to hide, that shouldn’t even be a question - the cops should already be on the way.
Bluffing was becoming irritating. Even if he talked his way out, he couldn’t leave them alive to identify him. It felt unsporting to mislead them.
‘My employer was informed that your employer is infringing upon our territory and markets. I’m here to verify the accuracy of this information.’
‘What?’ asked the head idiot. This could be a long night.
‘What is it you do here?’ asked Jimmy.
‘I’ll ask the questions.’
‘And fail to understand the answers, it seems.’
‘Stop trying to be clever,’ said the spokesman. His fingers stroked his still-holstered Glock a bit too lovingly.
‘No effort required,’ said Jimmy. ‘Mayweather Technologies is a suitably vague title - though a quick search shows no one associated with the company has that name. I’m still not sure what it is the company actually does. I was expecting to find something incriminating, or at least revelatory, but found only junk.’ He waved at the cases.
The spokesman relaxed, as though satisfied Jimmy didn’t know the value of what he was looking at. That implied the stuff was of value to somebody.
‘What am I not seeing?’ asked Jimmy.
The spokesman’s expression hardened. He inclined his head to the woman, his eyes never leaving Jimmy. ‘Call the police.’
It confirmed they hadn’t already. That gave him time.
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that,’ said Jimmy.
They tensed. The one with the drawn gun held it firmly in both hands, but didn’t raise it.
Jimmy held his hands casually away from his sides. ‘If you were working slobs, I might be otherwise inclined.’ Though probably not. ‘But it’s obvious you know what goes on here.’
He drew his Heckler & Koch HK45 from the holster at his back before they could react, and raised it before the guard got his halfway up. The man stumbled back from the body shot. The others drew their guns before he hit the floor. The woman barely cleared her holster before the next shot knocked her back.
The spokesman ducked to the side of the doorway before raising his piece, reaching cover before Jimmy had a shot.
Jimmy had no cover. Crouching beside a table was the best he had.
The Glock came around the edge of the door, only the hand holding it visible. It fired wildly and too high.
Jimmy fired a shot against the edge of the doorway, and gun and hand - mainly hand - ducked back.
The woman was still moving, and still held her gun. The other guard was still, so hopefully no longer a concern. The woman struggled to raise her gun, but looked too weak to aim. She was as likely to hit her own guy as Jimmy, but no point risking it. Another shot ended her struggle.
The remaining guard used the distraction to fire again. A shot ricocheted off the case near Jimmy’s head. He flinched, then calmly returned fired. The gun ducked back again.
Gunfights were nothing new. An irritation he’d sooner avoid, but they didn’t fluster him. No more than passing concern for his own survival made them less terrifying, and occasionally even enjoyable when he was in the mood.
The temporary calm afforded his rational mind time to consider strategy. The guard had ducked the wrong way. The exit from the adjoining room was on the other side, and the door between them was hinged on the opposite side, so he couldn’t shut Jimmy in. He’d have to cross the doorway, whatever he did. Unless he simply dug in and called the cops.
The Glock reappeared, shooting wildly. The guard had presumably reloaded. One bullet cracked under the table beside Jimmy, ricocheting too close for comfort. He’d prefer walking out without any holes in him. They could be conspicuous.
He fired again, aware he’d need to reload soon.
The guard darted across the open doorway as soon as Jimmy stopped firing.
Jimmy stood to keep the man in sight. Aimed for the legs, hoping for a conversation. He fired, with a click. He shouldn’t be out of ammo.
The guard slowed at the realisation. Took a moment to aim, leaving Jimmy short of time. The room was too narrow to evade. He grabbed the display gun.
The guard’s
Jimmy aimed for the leg. Fired.
The man fell. The lifeless collapse of someone who’d taken something more serious than a leg shot.
Confirming he hadn’t been hit, Jimmy advanced with the gun trained on the guard. There was no reaction by the time he reached the man’s side, and the vacant panic on his face told Jimmy he was dead. After confirming the other two were likewise, Jimmy knelt by the spokesman and checked him over.
No pulse. He was dead. Yet there was no blood. No sign he’d been hit.
Jimmy stood, stepped back, and looked at the gun.
Had it fired? Despite the confined space having left his ears ringing from the earlier shots, Jimmy was sure he’d heard the gun fire. And he’d felt recoil.
He examined it again, not focussing on absent markings and recognisable design this time, but on the craftsmanship. The details were wrong. It seemed carved rather than assembled, and he couldn’t see how to dismantle it. He tried ejecting the clip, but it wouldn’t separate, and didn’t look as though it should.
Perhaps the man suffered a heart attack. A lucky fluke.
No. The look of panic had been directed at the gun, as though expecting it to do something.
Was that what this place developed? Some new kind of weapon technology that killed without leaving a mark. That was high-end stuff, and wouldn’t be sold on the streets.
The job had become increasingly suspicious.
Still, nothing else to do here. Hanging around would be unwise now that there were bodies. The gunshots might have been heard.
Jimmy bagged the items and left.
Chapter 2
The rain lacked consistency and enthusiasm, with slight spatters falling sporadically. Just enough to send the crime scene guys fumbling to erect some cover over the bodies. Not an easy prospect in the cramped alley, and even less so with just the two of them. It must be a busy night, or a result of cuts.
They’d decline any offers of help, as that might contaminate the scene. At least avoiding contamination offered an excuse for Cassie to stay under the minimal cover offered by the doorway, alongside Harry.
‘Minetti,’ said Harry, clicking his fingers. ‘That’s it. Carl Minetti.’
‘Which one?’ asked Cassie.
‘The fatter, older one, with the dumb red trainers.’
While hard to judge their respective obesities, the footwear identified Minetti - and older was comparative, since Carl didn’t look much older than her. But given his lifestyle, he would be old within his social circle.
Both victims had bullet holes in their torsos and heads, and from the few traces of blood the rain had yet to dislodge, it looked to have happened here. The alley had a bend at one end, and a rusted door to a derelict factory at the other. No through traffic, and no overlooking windows, meant no witnesses. The alley leading to it had corners where the bodies could’ve been hidden if brought here, rather than dragged all the way in.
‘He anyone I should know?’ asked Cassie.
‘He wasn’t,’ said Harry. ‘Low-level pusher, but been around a while. Knows people. Don’t think that many of the people he knew liked him that much. And I guess at least one person really didn’t.’
‘Not necessarily. It looks like a clean hit. Both put down before they could draw their guns. Might just be business.’
Harry’s inarticulate grunt could be taken as agreement.
They’d been called because of the drugs found on the deceased, but the bodies meant it should go to Homicide - or possibly Organised Crime, if the pair were usefully connected. Vice was bottom of the pile, and only got the cases other departments didn’t want.
Not that Cassie was bitter. But she had only another couple of hours left on her shift, and until another department took over, this officially belonged to Vice. That required their presence, unless they had anything more urgent to deal with. That seemed unlikely.
When potential replacements appeared a few minutes later, it wasn’t exactly a relief.
Simons’ gaze locked on her with a degree of distaste, but he didn’t slow his approach. She didn’t recognise his sidekick. He must be new to Homicide, arriving in the two months since her lateral demotion.
‘Detective Kinsala,’ Simons greeted her in a clipped tone. He wore a predictably smart suit under the too-clean coat.
‘Detective Simons,’ she said. ‘This is Detective Jansen.’
Harry nodded a brief acknowledgement, eyes unreadable. He slouched casually, enhancing his slovenly demeanour. Harry disliked other departments on principle, so would happily support any antagonism he picked up on in her tone. ‘You’re taking the case, then?’ asked Harry. ‘Have fun with that.’ He straightened, preparing to leave.
‘We’re just having a look,’ said Simons. The smile that danced across his lips looked like a playful sneer, though her irritation might colour that impression. ‘Jurisdiction is still under discussion.’
Why? Okay, no one wanted a double homicide bringing down their stats - unless it was obviously a quick clear - but it was usually a brief horse trade to decide who’d take a case. Why waste more executive time arguing the point?
She groaned. Harry glanced at her. ‘Stats review next week,’ she said.
Harry snorted and shook his head, then glared at Simons. ‘So, this gets left hanging around our necks until after the review.’
Simons shrugged, glancing around at the crime scene with little interest. ‘Try not to mess things up too badly before we get a chance to solve it.’
Harry turned to Cassie. ‘Does he have to be such a dick about passing on the news?’
‘I don’t think he has to be a dick,’ said Cassie. ‘It’s more of a lifestyle choice.’
Simons’ gaze hardened. ‘Don’t take it too hard when you fail this time,’ he said.
She met his glare in kind.
‘Oh,’ said Harry, in an exaggerated tone. ‘Is this the guy who threw you under the bus to save himself? Now I get the being a dick stuff.’
Simons didn’t spare him a glance. ‘Try to keep your temper in check this time, Ophelia.’ He turned and left.
Harry waited until the pair were out of sight. ‘Ophelia?’
Cassie sighed. ‘Bastard looked at my personnel file.’
‘Is it Ophelia Cassandra Kinsala, or Cassandra Ophelia Kinsala?’ asked Harry, the smile evident in his tone. ‘Now I get why you don’t talk to your folks much.’
She ignored him.
Simons hadn’t really betrayed her. He just hadn’t supported her indignation when a case fell through because the murderer was rich. The perp could afford lawyers who scoured the evidence for any minor error in process. The error hadn’t even been hers, but because she’d vocalised her frustrations, she’d been nominated scapegoat, and this was her punishment.
‘I suppose we’d better investigate, then,’ she said.
Harry offered an unenthusiastic sigh. Neither made any move to do so. They had to wait for forensics to finish their work, which might take hours.
It was a bad quarter of an hour before one of the techs handed them the bagged personal effects of the victims for perusal. They confirmed Minetti’s identity, but his associate had a couple of IDs on him, so they’d have to research which was real.
The drugs on their persons wouldn’t normally have earned them a second look. It was the area’s reputation for the trade that had gotten Vice called in. And, to be fair, it seemed justified, given what Harry knew about Minetti.
Harry held up a bagged piece of paper. Cassie looked at it: a handwritten note with a company name, Mayweather Technologies, and what was presumably their address.
‘This’ll be a clue, then,’ said Harry.
‘Really?’ said Cassie. ‘You almost sound like a detective.’
‘Almost. You think he had a job interview there?’
‘Was he technologically gifted?’
‘Opening a bottle strained his technical acumen.’
‘Then I’m guessing not,’ said Cassie. ‘Only ideas that come to mind are that it’s a burglary target, or part of their operation. He do much burglary?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Not that I knew. He focussed on drugs, and stuck to what little he knew. Not the entrepreneurial type. I suppose we could go look.’
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