It was the goddamn middle of nowhere, in a barely used parking area in Snake River Birds of Prey, miles from Boise and the prying eyes and drones of the police. Connor had to shell out for a gyro to take him, spending a good deal of the money he had left over from his arms sale. He prayed that Duncan’s information was good, otherwise this whole venture was a waste of time and money. He intended to bag and sell every firearm he came across, perhaps keeping some for his assault on Kemprex’s Ohio facility. He would need more than a sword to take on squads of Programmed mercenaries.

Allan sat beside him and threw stones at a fallen log, shivering in the night air as they waited. Both men had rubbed themselves down with charcoal to help avoid detection. Covering Connor head to foot had been an undertaking, using up all lumps they had thought to bring with them. The site was open prairie, with little to nowhere to hide. Allan had them hunker up near some rocks a hundred paces from the parking lot. The plan was to wait until the weapons had been loaded onto the Reye’s transport before Connor would make a move, ideally after the sellers had left, eliminating another group of armed guards. Connor thought that their hiding spot was too far from the action, but the old man insisted.

“There’s a saying in the military, Boy,” he had explained back at his squat. “The twenty-foot rule is real.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The twenty-foot rule is the amount of distance a man can charge before the enemy can fire his weapon. Let’s say the bastard is a lookout. He’s at rest. Weapon armed and stowed safely. He’s bored shitless but alert enough. Suddenly, he sees you, charging at him, bayonet pointing at his chest. It takes him a second for his brain to register you. It takes another to realise you’re a threat. Another to reach for his weapon and another to point it in your direction. Now, by this stage, his brain is going through the fight or flight options. If he’s trained well enough, he’ll shoot. But he’s human. He doesn’t want to kill another man. He’d rather have a beer with you and talk it out. But here you are, coming for the kill. By the time this poor soul has reached a decision, you’re on him, or he’s running too. It’s the reason why we still fix bayonets in the age of the rifle. Shooting a man at a distance is easy by comparison. It’s just a blob that’s vaguely human shaped. Shooting him up close is much harder. When you can see his face… what he looks like… It isn’t easy.”

Allan had shut up like a clam afterwards, harassed by the memories of his violent past. Connor knew it was taking every ounce of will the vet had not to disappear back down the ket rabbit hole to escape. To satisfy him, Connor had adapted his body until he could sprint at a reasonable pace. It wasn’t Pro levels of speed, but it would do.

“This is more than twenty feet,” said Connor idly.

“Just don’t get seen until you are at twenty feet,” replied Allan. “Who knows, maybe they won’t even show up?”

Connor turned to look at him. “Are you sure we should be doing this?”

“This?” asked Allan, with a sweep of arms. “Not really. Boise doesn’t need any more guns on the streets. The Lions aren’t some bloody charity. They’ll use them. Are they better than the Reyes? Marginally. But that’s like asking which devil you want to fuck you in the ass for all eternity. Maybe the Lions will be a little gentler. They’re still fucking you in the ass no matter what way you paint it.”

Connor grinned under his visor. “Some people like it, Allan. Maybe it would grow on you, too.”

Allan slugged him on the shoulder. He gasped as it connected and clutched his aching fist. “Bone bastard,” spat the older man. “I’ll make you like it!”

“Calm down,” said Connor, still grinning. “Did you break it?”

Allan flexed his hand gingerly. “No… Hurts like hell though.”

“Seriously. What if we did something with the guns?” asked Connor.

“Like?”

Connor shrugged. “How many veterans do you know?”

Allan looked at the sky in thought. “Dozens. Half are fucking useless though. Drugged out, spaced out or just plain sick.”

“Do you see what I’m getting at though?” asked Connor, his voice raising as he became more excited. “You guys could take back the streets. Have the means to protect yourself at the very least. I mean, we don’t even know what’s being sold. The value could be way more than four grand you owe. Fuck the Lions.”

Allan sat bolt upright. “Yes…”

“Clear your debts. Keep the rest. Start your own damn gang. Clean up the streets,” said Connor. “You could take back the city.”

The vet clapped him on the shoulder. “Duncan has fucked up. He should never have told us about this score!”

Connor laid a hand on Allan in return, careful not to hurt him. “He’ll live to regret it. If these assholes turn up that is…”

As the words spilled from his lips, the headlights from a convoy of vehicles lit up the night. Connor and Allan swore in tandem as they dove for the cover of the rocks.

“Do you think they saw us?” whispered Connor.

“We’ll soon know.”

Both men waited, their hearts hammering with every passing second as the convoy crawled past their hiding spot. Two SUVs escorted a short base delivery truck. The vehicles seemed innocuous enough until a dozen armed men sprang out as they came to a gravel crunching stop. The Reyes fanned out, weapon in hand, securing the parking area.

Connor titled his head to Allan. “What now?”

The veteran shook his head and shushed him.

They soon heard the roaring fans of a large carrier. Connor looked up as it flew overhead. The ship flew dark, without its flashing beacon lights in operation. The sleek ship almost blended into the night sky. It banked sharply and came into land, its fans throwing up a curtain of prairie dust. The gangsters turned away until the fans slowed to a stop by the deploying brakes. Connor switched the lenses in his eyes, zooming into witness the transaction. The hanger door telescoped open. Three figures descended the ramp. They wore suits of pure black. Skeletal helmets obscured their heads. Their appearance triggered a fearful response in Connor.

“Phantoms? Are those A.R.C?”

Allan shushed him.

The newcomers approached the central bunch of Reyes. The two groups stood opposite each other, the Phantoms at ease despite the overwhelming numbers of Reyes. Connor felt the blood rush to his head. Part of him wanted to charge them then and there, to stain his sword crimson in Coalition blood. The other part wanted to run away, piss soaked and bawling.

Allan sensed the tension in him and patted his back. “Don’t…”

The two groups came to some kind of arrangement. A phantom signalled to the carrier with a hand gesture. Two more phantoms appeared aboard the jet, pushing a cargo jack loaded with boxed equipment. The trolley flew down the ramp and onto the dirt. The Reyes were onto it in seconds, swarming over the cargo and carrying away individual crates.

“We have got to get that gear now…” whispered Connor.

Allan stared straight ahead, his face set with worry. Connor bit his lip beneath the bone visor. People dressed as the veteran’s old enemy were a hundred feet in front of him. God knows what was going through his head.

The last crate was loaded onto the truck. A phantom attached a cable to the trolley and hoisted it back up the ramp of the carrier. The two groups parted, boarding their vehicles.

“This is it,” said Connor, shaking Allan by the shoulder. “Stay down. Wait here until they’re gone. Catch a gyro back to Boise if you don’t see me back here in ten minutes. You’ve got that burner cell and the cash, right?”

Allan patted his pocket.

“Just don’t blow it all on ket,” warned Connor, standing.

The carrier’s fans spun into life, sending dust and grit their way. The last Reyes member jumped into a revving SUV. The convoy started.

Allan gripped his hand. “I don’t like this!” he shouted over the wind. “We’re getting too greedy.”

Connor shook him off. “I’m doing it. I’ll see you.” He broke into a run before the other man could talk him out of it. This wasn’t just for Allan’s sake. It was also his and his family’s future.