It was horrifying, and yet Jack knew that every word Charlie spoke was true.
“They’re networked all over the US, ensuring no one area draws undo attention, but they tend to concentrate around colleges and universities, especially the private and Ivy League schools. Blue bloods want blue bloods, not street rats. Brian was working with a known cell around Princeton when he dropped off the radar.”
“Jesus.”
Charlie sat back and poured them each another cup of coffee. “Not what you thought, huh?”
“No.” That was an understatement. When Brian said he was taking on covert ops, he was picturing something a hell of a lot more... self-serving. He said as much to Charlie.
“To be honest, there is some of that,” Charlie admitted. “Which is exactly why Sammy and I will be parting ways as soon as this is resolved. He’s taking it upon himself to branch out into areas in which I refuse to tread.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jack followed Charlie to a gun range just over the Pennsylvania/New York border. The place was privately owned and operated by a Marine named Ryan Duffy. Charlie told him Duffy was a “good friend”, but Jack quickly learned that “good friend” was a euphemism for a highly-useful, contributing member of Charlie’s network.
The place was unimpressive on the outside, a large, squat, square building that looked as if it might have been a warehouse at one time. It sat alone on a couple of cleared acres, surrounded beyond that with forested land. Jack didn’t fail to notice the security cameras mounted along the long driveway to the asphalt lot in the back, swiveling to follow their progress. Clearly, Duffy liked to see his customers coming. Smart man.
They parked and walked up to the wide, reinforced steel doors. A small white sign bearing the name “Duffy’s” stenciled in black was the only adornment.
“Look up,” Charlie commanded quietly.
Jack did, right into the lens of yet another security camera. “This guy takes his security seriously, doesn’t he?” he muttered under his breath.
Charlie chuckled as a slight buzzing noise was followed by the snick of the door unlocking. They walked into was what obviously the public section. The small room was done in dark paneling, and was decorated with framed pictures of service men from all branches. Behind the simple counter, an American flag.
“Charlie, good to see you.”
“Duffy,” Charlie nodded. “This is my good friend, Jack Callaghan.”
Duffy was a few inches shorter than Jack, but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth; the guy was roughly the size of a small tank. He shook Jack’s hand with a vise-like grip, leveling him with an assessing, if curious, gaze.
“Jack Callaghan,” Duffy grunted in a rough, broken-glass kind of voice. “Heard a lot about you. I hope you’re half as good as Charlie says you are.”
Unsure of exactly how “good” Charlie said he was, Jack returned the strong handshake with a firm squeeze of his own and said nothing.
“I like him,” the big Marine commented to Charlie. “Knows when to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open.”
Duffy swiped his card in the reader mounted beside an inner door. “Members only,” he said by way of explanation.
This took them into another room, this one far more spacious. To the right, an impressive display of firearms and ammunitions. To the left, a dozen or so soundproofed firing alleys, half of which were occupied.
“Nice setup,” Jack commented.
The human tank grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Duffy walked briskly down the center to another door. This time, in addition to swiping his card, he stabbed out a series of numbers onto the keypad with beefy fingers.
“Good friends only,” Charlie explained with the ghost of a smile.
Another room, another door, then they were single-filing it down a narrow set of steps. The final door required a thumbprint scan. Jack held his breath, sensing that whatever was behind that one, was big.
He was right. He entered into another cavernous room, easily as big as the one on the floor above, if not bigger. Another series of firing alleys on the left. And a weapons specialist’s wet dream everywhere else.
Air burst grenade launchers. M24 sniper rifles. Glocks.
“What the hell is that?” Jack asked, pointing to a small, rectangular black device that looked positively innocent among the high-grade arsenal.
“He has good taste,” quipped Duffy. “That, my friend, is the latest in FMGs—– folding machine guns.” Duffy picked it up, gave it a flip, and it went from non-threatening to badass. “A selective-fire weapon, less than five pounds. Fires at the rate of nearly one thousand rounds per minute.” With another simple hand movement, it folded back up.