Sheepdog-09

Reginald took Ken with him to the gun store and range that he owned, a place called “North Star Arms.” The two of them walked through the clean, well-lit and spacious retail floor and the handful of clean, well-dressed sales associates dealing with customers there to the manager’s officer in the back. In that room, behind the desk, sat the man Reginald employed to manage his business, an old friend from Reginald’s military days by the name of Gerald Johnson. Gerald has a duffle bag on the desk and a hockey bag on the floor before it. Both of them were open, and both of them were full of guns.

Reginald closed the door, and Ken peered into the bags. He smiled.

“Gerald, you remember Ken.” Reginald said, and Gerald came out to shake Ken’s hand.

“I do.” Gerald said, “I’m glad to meet you Ken. Reginald told me plenty about you.”

Ken chuckled, and then Reginald said “Gerald, what have we to offer our friend?”

“Oh, I think Ken can figure that out for himself.” Gerald said, and Ken began pouring over the contents. The smaller of the two bags contained a vast array of revolvers and pistols, along with a few smaller submachine guns and short-barreled shotguns. Ken grabbed handgun after handgun, racking the slides and checking the cylinders, looking down the barrels and shining lights down them to check the bores, marking the features and deciding upon which ones to take and which to reject.

“This is quite a spread, Reggie.” Ken said, “What are you selling to the sheriff?”

“Smith and Wesson, M&P, chambered in 9mm Luger.” Gerald pointed out the Smith & Wesson M&P9, and Ken picked it up again.

“What are the Zetas and their boys usually carrying?”

“Most of their handguns are in 9mm, followed by .40 Smith & Wesson, with a few using handguns in .45 ACP.”

Ken set aside a Glock 17, a Kel-Tec P11 and a Ruger LC9. Reginald and Gerald got Ken’s thinking; a full-sized service pistol, followed by a pair of easily-concealed backups in the same 9mm caliber.

“Do we have any intelligence on their movements?”

“According to my sources,” Reginald said, “the Zetas have some issues going on in Mexico right now that take up much of their time and attention. Problems north of the border are on the backburner until their backyard is secure.”

“That don’t mean that we’re ignored.” Gerald said, “The sheriff, Reginald and I think that these gangs that the Zetas brought into their syndicate are how they intend to deal with us.”

Ken nodded. He set aside a short-barreled Mossberg pump-action shotgun and then a Kel-Tec Sub 2000.  Then reached into the hockey bag.

“Bikers, I assume, and not just the guys we dealt with before?” Ken said as he pulled out a pair of AK series rifles.

“Correct.” Reginald said, “Hell’s Angels, specifically, though there’s bound to be a few Zetas along to oversee Zetas interests.”

Ken pulled out a Mosin-Nagant, one of the restored sniper variants, and worked the bolt.

“Not for long.” Ken said, and he smiled a wide and wicked grin.