Preparing to Act

Queens.

As dusk deepened, a black Chevrolet Malibu rumbled over the pitted asphalt, its headlights cutting through the gloom under a mottled overpass. Tires crushed broken pavement, splashing a few drops of muddy water before finally braking to a stop before a rusty iron gate.

The car window slowly rolled down, revealing a rugged face with dark brown skin, a prominent nose, and a thick beard above a stern gaze. Beta scanned ahead: the dilapidated repair shop's exterior paint was peeling, its tin roof vibrated slightly in the wind. The only striking feature was a red-glowing camera above the doorframe, silently watching him.

He gave a short honk—"Beep!"

After a few seconds of silence, the iron gate screeched with the sound of metal grinding against metal and slowly slid open to both sides. Beta stepped on the gas, the car rolling over the weed-choked lot and heading straight for the workshop. As the rolling door creaked upwards, dim lights seeped out from within.

Tires crunched over the oil-stained concrete floor, and the Chevrolet finally stopped in the center of the workshop. After the engine died, the only sounds were the hum of old exhaust fans and the faint, distant clang of metal.

Beta tucked his Glock pistol into the small of his back, pushed open the car door, and stepped into the dim workshop.

A heavy plastic curtain hung in the entrance, its originally transparent material now mottled and blurry from years of grease. Behind it, the piercing shriek of an angle grinder could be heard, and the blue-white arcs of a welding torch cast flickering silhouettes on the plastic, revealing blurry figures moving through the smoky haze.

He lifted the sticky plastic curtain, and a wave of hot, stuffy air, thick with the smell of engine oil, washed over him.

This was an underground auto repair shop operating on the fringes of the law, a place where stolen cars and smuggled vehicles were given new identities.

Sports cars with their VINs removed were propped up on lifts, license plates from various states were piled in a corner, and a spray gun was applying a fresh coat of paint to a van. Whether it was a getaway car for fugitives, a custom build for underground racers, or even "special services" for certain individuals, everything could be found here.

Technicians in overalls worked busily, their wary glances occasionally flashing amidst the sparks from their welding guns.

Charley, the owner of the repair shop, a Mexican-American man, was leaning against the hood of his old Lincoln Continental.

He had cleverly converted the antique car's hood into a bar, complete with a half-empty bottle of Tequila, an almost empty bottle of Whiskey, and a set of gleaming crystal glasses. A small refrigerator beside it hummed quietly, packed with chilled beer and ice.

This simple yet functional "office" allowed him to oversee the entire shop and entertain guests at any time.

As Beta pushed aside the oil-stained plastic curtain and walked in, Charley was slowly squeezing lemon juice into a glass with his rough fingers.

He looked up at his guest and asked in Spanish with a heavy Mexican accent, "Qué se te ofrece?" (What can I do for you?)

Beta sat down opposite Charley and raised his hand to block the glass he was being offered.

Beta lowered his voice and got straight to the point: "Someone in Paris needs a sniper rifle. I took the job, but I don't have connections in Europe. Same old, I need you to handle the transfer. Name your price."

Charley put down his glass. "Golmingo, are you kidding me? Paris has Continental Hotels, doesn't it? Why not just order whatever weapon you want directly from there?"

Beta replied, "The client has special requirements. I took the money, so I have to fulfill the order, no questions asked."

Charley mused, "If I take your money, I arrange for someone to buy one at the Continental Hotel in Paris and then transfer it to your client. Would that work?"

Beta shook his head slightly. "Correction. If you take this job, then they are our client."

He paused and continued, "You arrange for someone to get a sniper rifle from the Continental Hotel and hand it over to the client. We'll split it 40/60, you get 60, I get 40. How about that?"

Charley smiled and nodded. "Deal."

Beta didn't care about the specific origin of the sniper rifle. He just needed to ensure the supply chain was convoluted enough to make it difficult for the Paris police to trace, even if they investigated.

Beta stood up and listed his requirements: "The client wants a CheyTac M200 with .408 ammunition. The rifle must be in good condition, and there must be at least 14 rounds of ammunition."

Charley spread his hands. "What does he need a .408 caliber sniper rifle for? To shoot armored vehicles?"

Beta shook his head. "I don't care about the purpose. We just need to provide the equipment that meets the requirements and get paid."

Charley nodded. "That's right. Even if he wants to shoot down an airplane, it's none of our business."

He paused. "When do you need it?"

Beta asked briefly, "When can it be ready at the earliest?"

Charley was already pulling out his phone. "I can arrange it now."

Before quickly dialing, he asked, "Delivery location?"

Beta thought for a moment. "Have your people keep it for now. The client will contact you, and your people will complete the handover. Cash and carry."

Charley nodded in satisfaction. "A reasonable process."

His thumb hovered over the dial button. "I'll contact my people in Paris now to procure it from the Continental Hotel."

Charley held the phone to his ear, and after the call connected, he gave instructions in Spanish: "Go to the Continental Hotel and get a CheyTac M200 in good condition, with 14 rounds of .408 ammunition."

Beta stood still, his gaze sweeping across the noisy workshop.

This was an assembly line for car modifications. Dozens of cars, most of them with their roofs cut off. Welders were hunched over, sparks flying as they joined convertible frames to car bodies. Next to several vehicles that had completed the welding process, workers were installing curved windshields.

At the other end of the workshop, a cutting machine whined loudly as it neatly sliced off the roof of another sedan. The completed vehicles were quickly wrapped in thick protective film and skillfully transported on wooden pallets by forklift operators, awaiting shipment.

The entire workshop was filled with the acrid smell of burning metal and engine oil.

Charley hung up the phone and casually tossed it onto the hood bar. "When the client arrives in Paris, I'll arrange for my people to complete the handover."

Beta nodded slightly. "Understood."

He paused. "Also, I want to swap the Chevrolet I drove in for a different car."

Charley took a sip from his glass and waved his hand dismissively. "Pick any one you like. Whatever catches your eye."

"A short-wheelbase BMW M3," Beta said casually.

Charley turned and shouted to a nearby worker, "Go get a short-wheelbase M3 and swap it for the Chevrolet in the workshop."

"Not now," Beta interrupted suddenly.

Charley raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Beta explained, "The exchange location is in Paris, in the parking lot at Charles de Gaulle Airport."

Beta needed to make some arrangements in advance for his operation in Paris.

Charley smiled knowingly. "Sure, just remember to pay the difference."