Queens.
As dusk deepened, a black Chevrolet Malibu rolled over the uneven concrete road, its headlights cutting through the gloom beneath a weathered overpass. Its tires crunched over broken asphalt, splashing a few drops of muddy water before it finally braked in front of a rusted iron gate.
The window slowly rolled down, revealing a rugged face with dark brown skin, a hooked nose, and a thick beard. His gaze was steely. Beta looked ahead: the peeling exterior of a dilapidated repair shop, its sheet-metal roof trembling faintly in the wind. The only thing that stood out was the red-glowing camera above the doorframe, silently watching him.
He gave the horn a quick tap—"Beep!"
After a few seconds of silence, the iron gate let out a shrill metallic groan and slowly slid open. Beta pressed the gas, driving across the weed-choked lot straight toward the workshop. The roll-up door creaked open, and dim light seeped out from within.
The tires rolled over the oil-stained concrete, and the Chevrolet finally stopped in the middle of the workshop. Once the engine died, all that remained was the hum of an old exhaust fan and the faint sound of metal clanging in the distance.
Beta tucked his Glock pistol into the back of his waistband, opened the car door, and stepped into the dim workshop.
A heavy plastic curtain hung in front of him. Years of accumulated grease had turned the once-clear material cloudy and mottled. Behind it came the shrill whine of an angle grinder, while the blue-white arc of a welding torch cast shifting silhouettes across the plastic. Several figures could just be made out moving through the smoke.
He lifted the sticky plastic curtain, and a wave of murky heat carrying the smell of motor oil hit him.
This was an underground auto shop operating on the edge of the law. Stolen cars, smuggled vehicles, and all manner of illicit rides came here to be given new identities.
A sports car with its VIN ground off sat on a lift. License plates from different states were piled in a corner, and a spray gun was coating a van in a fresh color. Whether it was a getaway car for a fugitive, a modification for an underground race, or even a "custom service" for certain special clients, the shop could handle it all.
Mechanics in coveralls worked busily, occasionally casting wary glances through the sparks from their welding torches.
The auto shop's owner, Charley, a Mexican-American man, was leaning against the hood of his old Lincoln Continental.
He had cleverly converted the hood of the antique car into a bar. On it sat a half-empty bottle of tequila, a nearly drained bottle of whiskey, and a set of gleaming crystal glasses. A small refrigerator hummed beside it, packed with chilled beer and ice.
This crude but practical "office" let him keep an eye on the entire workshop while entertaining visitors from all walks of life whenever they came by.
When Beta lifted the oil-stained plastic curtain and entered, Charley was pinching a slice of lemon between his rough fingers, slowly squeezing its juice into a glass.
He looked up at his visitor and asked in heavily accented Spanish, "Qué se te ofrece?" ("What can I do for you?")
Beta sat down opposite Charley and raised a hand to stop him from pushing over a glass.
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 any connections in Europe. Same as always—I'm using you as the middleman. Name your price."
Charley set down his glass. "Golmingo, are you joking? Paris has a Continental Hotel. If you want a weapon, why not just place an order there?"
"The client has special requirements," Beta replied. "I've been paid, so I have to fill the order. No questions asked."
Charley asked thoughtfully, "What if I take your money, arrange for someone to buy one at the Continental Hotel in Paris, and then pass it on to your client?"
Beta shook his head slightly. "Correction: if you take this job, then they're our client."
He paused, then continued, "You arrange for someone to get a sniper rifle from the Continental Hotel and deliver it to the client. We split the money forty-sixty, with you getting sixty and me forty. How's that?"
Charley nodded with a smile. "Deal."
Beta didn't care where the sniper rifle came from. He only needed to make sure its trail was sufficiently convoluted that even if the Paris police investigated, they'd have a hard time following it.
Beta stood and listed his requirements. "The client wants a CheyTac M200 with .408 ammunition. The rifle has to be in good condition, with at least fourteen rounds."
Charley spread his hands. "What does he need a 10.36-millimeter sniper rifle for? Shooting an armored vehicle?"
Beta shook his head. "I don't care what it's for. We just need to provide the equipment he asked for and collect the money."
Charley nodded. "That's right. Even if he wants to shoot down a plane, it's none of our business."
He paused. "When does he need it?"
"When's the soonest you can get it?" Beta asked briefly.
Charley was already pulling out his phone. "I can arrange it right now."
Before dialing, he asked, "Where's the handoff?"
Beta thought for a moment. "Have your people hold on to it for now. The client will contact you, and your people can handle the handoff. Payment and goods exchanged in full."
Charley nodded in approval. "That's a sensible arrangement."
His thumb hovered over the call button. "I'll contact my people in Paris and have them buy one from the Continental Hotel."
Charley put the phone to his ear. When the call connected, he gave his instructions in Spanish. "Go to the Continental Hotel and get a CheyTac M200 in good condition, with fourteen rounds of .408 ammunition."
Beta stood still, surveying the noisy workshop.
This was an assembly line for car modifications. Dozens of cars, most with their roofs removed, filled the space. Welders bent over their work, sparks flying as they welded convertible frames to the car bodies. Beside several vehicles that had finished welding, workers were installing curved windshields.
At the other end of the workshop, a cutting machine shrieked as it neatly sliced the roof off another sedan. The freshly cut cars were quickly wrapped in thick protective film, then skillfully moved by forklift onto wooden pallets, ready for shipment.
The whole workshop reeked of scorched metal and motor oil.
Charley ended the call and casually tossed his phone onto the hood-bar. "When the client gets to Paris, I'll arrange for my people to handle the handoff."
Beta gave a slight nod. "Understood."
He paused. "Also, swap the Chevrolet I drove here for another car."
Charley took a sip from his glass and waved a hand dismissively. "Pick whichever one you want. Take your pick."
"A short-wheelbase BMW M3," Beta said casually, naming a model.
Charley turned to the worker beside him and shouted, "Bring over a short-wheelbase M3 and swap it for the Chevrolet in the workshop."
"Not now," Beta abruptly interrupted.
Charley raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"The exchange will take place in Paris, in the parking lot at Charles de Gaulle Airport," Beta explained.
Beta needed to put some things in place ahead of the operation in Paris.
Charley smiled knowingly. "Sure. Just remember to cover the difference."
Before you continue