Part 1 – The Assignment
The Republic of Swardia, a small, peaceful principality on the Caspian Sea, nestled between the borders of Russia and Kazakhstan that doesn't really have a lot of metahuman activity, but there are always underlying factions. The city is a hothouse of spies and political intrigue that at its core is all about money.
The bars in the city can range from low-end dive bars that have more town drunks in it than there are whiskey drinkers in Ireland to very high-end, upscale bars that use posh, upscale market ingredients that require hundreds of dollars to purchase.
The men and women that walk the streets are either bar or casino employees that often have to walk or take the train to work because they work on a fixed wage, but they're happy, save for when a political move threatens their livelihood, then they can get pissed.
The casinos aren't as glamorous as the ones in Las Vegas, Beijing, or Macau, but they hold their own, moderately-sized casinos with all the basic necessities and amenities.
The gentleman at the end of the Baccarat table was wearing a solid white suit that had a shawl-style lapel that was colored light grey, and wore a gray shirt to contrast the color of the lapel, he was nursing a tall glass of Jonnie Walker Blue.
He put 2,500 worth of chips down on the table, and looked around: two players threw their cards down, while one of the players placed his chips on the table, and smiled.
"Gentlemen, showdown please," the dealer said, the player across from the man in the white suit placed his cards on the table: two twos, "Four to Monsieur White," the dealer then turned to the man in white, "Monsieur Bell," Mister Bell placed his cards down: a three and a two, "Five to Monsieur Bell," the dealer scoped up the chips with his paddle, and placed them in front of Mr. Bell.
Mr. Bell smiled ear to ear as he finished his drink, and raised his hand toward the bar, ordering another one.
He was so busy enjoying his success that he didn't see the newest player that not three minutes ago walked into the casino, placed 10,000 down in front of the chip counter, and walk down the stairs, toward the table.
The man that walked toward the table could be described a ruggedly handsome, he was at least six foot two, but the shoes he was wearing made him look about six foot five.
The white suit he was wearing seemed to take on a slightly bluish hue depending on where he was standing in the lights, but that could have been down to the fact his shirt was a burn-your-eyes-out shade of blue.
The olive skin was a nice contrast against the light brown hair on top of his head, and his light-brown eyes.
"How much is the buy-in," the man said as he walked up to the table.
"One thousand, sir," the dealer said.
The man placed the buy-in amount on the table, and took his seat, "Buy in for Mr. …" the dealer began.
"Burnside," the man said, "Mr. Burnside."
"I didn't know there were many Americans this close to the former U.S.S.R.," Mr. Bell said.
"I didn't either," Burnside said as he looked at the cards the dealer passed him, "But then again, my business often depends on me going to places I shouldn't be in."
"Ladies, and gentlemen," the dealer said, "Bets, please."
"Business," Mr. Bell asked as he put some more chips down on the table, "One thousand."
"Call," Burnside said as he called his bet, "I'm in exports, mostly used merchandise."
The dealer passed out two cards each, and handed them to each of the players, "What kind of merchandise," Mr. Bell asked as he flipped his cards: four and a three.
"Industrial merchandise," Burnside said as he flipped his: four and a two.
"Mr. Bell wins," the dealer said as he passed the chips to Mr. Bell.
"You'd be surprised how much money can be made off old industrial surplus," Burnside said as he turned towards the man watching over the game, "Ne mogli by vy pozvonit' barmenu?"
The man watching the game snapped toward the bar, and a single waiter walked over to the table, then watcher pointed at Burnside, "Yes sir," he asked.
"Dry Martini, please," Burnside said, "Gin, not vodka, Tanqueray if you have it, stirred it over ice, and add a thin slice of orange peel."
"Of course, sir," the barman said as he walked back towards the bar.
"You know what," the man next to Burnside said, "I will have one of those as well."
The woman next to Mr. Bell then said, "And one for me as well, hold the fruit."
"Ladies and Gentlemen, bets please," the dealer said.
"Two," Mr. Bell said as he placed two thousand worth of chips in front of him.
"Call," Burnside said as he pushed that amount in chips into the area in front of him.
"What kind of equipment," Mr. Bell asked.
"Old Soviet industrial machines," Burnside said, "Leftover machines, and old vehicles."
"Gentlemen," the dealer said, "Showdown, please," Mr. Bell flipped his cards over, ten and a ten, "Five for Mr. Bell," Mr. Bell drew another card from the deck, and flipped it: two, "Seven for Mr. Bell," Burnside then flipped his: two fours, "Eight, Mr. Burnside wins."
"Shit," Mr. Bell cursed as the dealer passed the chips to Burnside.
"Would you excuse me, please," Burnside said as he stood up, and walked over to the bar where he retrieved his drink, only to be joined by Mr. Bell.
"You seem to have extraordinary luck," Mr. Bell said, "I wasn't aware machine salesmen had good gambling luck."
"You'd be surprised," Burnside said as he sipped at his Martini, "The only thing I haven't had is luck with is finding new suppliers."
"Suppliers," Mr. Bell asked.
"I have seen many things over the years," Burnside said, "But one thing I've never seen is someone who has a steady stream of equipment."
"You know how to move heavy machinery," Mr. Bell asked.
"I have a few friends in high places," Burnside said, "Needless to say, the way I live, I can go anywhere we want, and be completely unmolested by law enforcement."
"That's something to look forward to," Mr. Bell said, "You interested in taking on a partner?"
"I'd need to see some of the product before I take on a bet," Burnside said.
"I think we could arrange a small tasting," Mr. Bell said, "Follow me."
"Allow me to collect my winnings," Burnside said as he walked back towards the table, and picked up his chips.
As soon as he walked back, Mr. Bell simply said, "This way."
The elevator that took them up to the upper-floors of the casino was lined with red wallpaper that had metallic shapes hidden in the background, the floors were either real or fake marble, and the ceiling was lined with some kind of a dark wood.
"You know the drill," Mr. Bell said.
Burnside put his hands against the wall while Mr. Bell's bodyguard patted him down, finding nothing but a nickel-plated P226 in a shoulder-holster.
"Easy with that," Burnside said, "That's custom."
The bodyguard tucked the P226 into the pocket of his jacket, and as they arrived on Mr. Bell's floor, it was a short thirty-second walk down the hall to his suite.
A quick swipe of his card was all that was needed to enter the large suite that overlooked the Caspian Sea.
Mahogany wood floors, leather furniture, a minibar, and a very large balcony.
Mr. Bell ushered Burnside to sit on the chair next to the glass coffee table in front of the couch.
"Can we see the color of your cash," Mr. Bell asked.
Burnside reached into his pocket, and pulled out two stacks of bills, "I was contemplating whether to turn these into chips or not," he said as he placed them on the table, "That's just a taste. The buyers I represent are willing to pay five times that if you deliver quality merchandise."
Mr. Bell took the money, and checked over the bills: all genuine U.S. dollars, and no tracking chip in between the individual ones.
He snapped, and his bodyguard went into the closet, pulled out a large case, and placed it in front of Burnside.
Inside the box were custom AKM rifles that had a railed handguard, a Vitor IMod Stock, "The only thing besides Vodka that is a quality Russian-made piece," Mr. Bell said.
Burnside reached into the box to take the rifle, and examine it, after looking down the sights, and racking he bolt, "Very smooth," Burnside said, "How many can you provide?"
"Exactly like that one," Mr. Bell asked before waving the bills around, "For this? I'd say we can get you about twenty five cases."
"One per case," Burnside asked.
"Yes," Mr. Bell said, "We can throw in suppressors, magazines, and scopes. But it'll cost more."
Burnside reached into his jacket, and placed the chips he won during the baccarat game on the table in front of him, "You know the casino will pay cash for those," he said.
Mr. Bell looked toward his bodyguard, and nodded, he placed three magazines on the table, as well as a suppressor, and a Russian-made red-dot scope.
Burnside slid the attachments into the case, reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a silver-metal pen, and wrote down an address on a napkin that was provided, "Please deliver the rest to this location," he said as he placed the piece of paper in front of Mr. Bell, "I will have to tell my buyers that I have found them the perfect supplier," he then closed the case, and stood up, "You have no idea how much your world is about to change."
"Indeed," Mr. Bell said as he signaled toward his bodyguard to show Burnside to the door.
As Burnside walked out the door, the bodyguard pulled out Burnside's P226 which he had installed a suppressor on when he was getting the AK, aimed it straight at the back of his head, but as he pulled the trigger, the gun clicked, checking the gun, the man realized that the gun was completely fake.
"You didn't think I'd make it that easy did you," Burnside said as he dropped the case containing the AK, and lifted his wrist to give the ring on the top of his watch a sharp rightward turn.
The gun beeped, and sent a high-frequency electric charge through Mr. Bell's bodyguard which caused him to fall to the floor, completely unconscious.
"I'll be in touch," Burnside said, "And don't worry, his unconsciousness is only temporary."
Burnside took the elevator to the casino floor, where he pulled out his phone, and radioed the office, "Mainland Supply Company," the woman on the other end of the line said.
"It's Burnside, get me Jackson," he said.
"Transferring you now," the woman said.
"It's Jackson," the man on the other end said.
"It's Burnside," he said, "We've got a supplier."
"Roger that," Jackson said, "Get the starter kit to the client, see how they like it."
"Yes sir," Burnside said as he exited the casino, and walked up to his car.
The drive to meet the client was a short 25-minute ride into the countryside where he found his client waiting.
The client was a short little scarecrow, but with the amount of medals on his Ukrainian uniform, you should never underestimate him, especially considering he grew a seriously ugly mustache on his face that you wouldn't dare make fun of. Primarily because of the walking wall of muscles and scars standing right beside him in an old Soviet-style uniform.
"You are Burnside," he asked.
"If I am, then that must make you General Vokolof," Burnside said.
"You have the weapon," Vokolof asked.
Burnside placed the case next to him, the walking wall then walked over, opened it, and showed it to the General.
"That is one of the rifles that went missing," Burnside asked, "Am I right?"
"You are indeed," Vokolof said, "You bought it here?"
"Along with the magazines, the suppressor, and the scope," Burnside said.
"You have the video," Vokolof asked.
Burnside pulled a small pen out of his shirt pocket, and tossed it to the General, "Removed the butt-cap," he said, "You'll find everything you need on there."
The General removed the butt-cap to show that the pen was in fact a hidden camera, "You are a man of many talents," the General said, "You don't disappoint."
"You're too kind, General," Burnside said.
As the General and his entourage left, Burnside walked back to his car, and drove back to town, straight to the airport.
His first stop was the ticket counter where a ticket to New York City was waiting for him.
Gate 23 was a short walk from the entrance of the terminal, after taking his seat, a woman, about five foot five, plus the extra two inches, the black high heels she was wearing gave her walked over to sit behind Burnside.
"Was the mission a success," she asked.
"Indeed," Burnside said, "There's a reason the boss sends me on these assignments."
"You've done well," she said, "The Director will be waiting on your report as soon as you get back to New York. I have to fly to London tonight, but I will see you in two days at the office."
"Indeed," Burnside said, "Thank you, Agent Chase."
"You know it's a pleasure," Cameron said, "See you in New York, Agent Saint-Hudson."
Graham smiled ear-to-ear, and stood up as they called his plane number: it was time for him to get back to New York City.
What do you think…
Translation:
Ne mogli by vy pozvonit' barmenu – Could you call the barman over