Locked And Loaded
Chapter One
What I've Gotten Myself Into
People say I'm a killer. Some say I'm a terrorist. But I think I'm just a businesswoman trying to support herself, and have the life she always wanted. They don't see the business part of what I do. Now, you see, I might have lost a couple of people there. No, I ain't no assassin, or hit man. But I have supplied a couple.
You see, I'm a gunrunner. A saleswoman, selling her merchandise to willing consumers.
Now, don't go blaming my parents that I got into this business. As far as they know, I ain't doin' nothing illegal. I'm only trying to make a buck, even if it happens to be the downfall of someone. As far as Ma and Pops go, I'm in the insurance business, and I prefer to keep it that way.
I remember what first threw me into this nasty profession.
I was walking down to the bank, going make a end-of-the-day deposit from the little hole-in-the-wall diner my Ma and Pops owned in the Bronx. I turned the corner of 4th & Main and walked into the fancy bank. As I crossed the reflective floors, I took stock of my small 16-year-old self. My hair was in a messy bun, but curly dark tendrils managed to escape. My khaki work pants and dingy white polo shirt stood out next to my emerald green eyes. I stood on the short side, barely reaching 5'3". I held the gray deposit envelope to my chest, and kept my eyes on the ground. After making the deposit, I quickly rushed outside, trying to get back to the diner as quick as possible. I glanced up from the cement to assure myself that I was going in the right direction. That's when I noticed the sell. There, in the small ally, were two men. One in dark attire, the other dressed more like he was affiliated with the gangs of the Bronx. They both looked as if all they wanted to do was blend in. Then I noticed the exchange. A wad of cash for a shiny object.
The next thing you know, I'm sitting in a roach-motel with a manual for a Glock 9mm handgun, and a bottle of PeptoBismol to calm my raging stomach from the nerves. My hands shook as I tried to focus on the small print telling me where the magazine was, what bullets it took and, how to turn the safety lock off. I skimmed through the print and in big, bold red letters read a simple but serious warning "The intent or act of reselling this or any firearm without proper licensing from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives will result in an immediate imprisonment of no less than ten years and no more than fifteen years of federal imprisonment and a fine no higher than $100,000" My heart skipped a beat. And then a few more. I couldn't handle prison! I began to hastily pack my things. I put my dirty clothes in a trash bag and shoved it in my suitcase. I grabbed my cellphone and charger, haphazardly dropping them in my purse. Right as I was shoving my arms through my old high school sweatshirt, a knock was sounded through out the room. I stood still. Maybe they would leave. Or maybe they would kick the door down. What did I know, I'm only a 17 year-old girl with a shitty plan for making it rich. A shitty, dangerous, and lucrative plan. I took a deep breathe, held it for a count of 7 and opened the door.
A shadow of a tall man stood in front of me. He towered over me by nearly a foot. I unconsciously took a step back, which the man took as an invitation to come in. In the yellow light of my room, I began to noticed details of his face, his body, even his damn posture. He had an air about the scream, Look at me! I am powerful! He hair was cut short, all business, and his face held his age very well. He didn't look a day over 30, but you never can tell with today's technology. He wore, what looked for him, to be casual clothing. A neatly ironed pair of dockers, loafers, and a white button up. Very different from my faded jeans, sneakers, and sweatshirt. He had a looked of weary disbelief, as if the he couldn't believe that a girl my age was committing a felony. I couldn't either.
As his eyes gave me a brief once-over, his gruff voice sounded through the room, "You are Andrea Ricci, I presume. My name is Antonio Conti. I understand you have a," He paused with a sarcastic smirk, "product to sell to me today. Am I correct?"
He gave me a knowing glance, as if he was waiting for me to run out the door like a little girl. Anger and fear swirled inside me. Each tugging at me to do something. I swallowed the bile as it rushed up my throat, and nodded. After a second I managed to speak, meekly at first, but stronger by the end.
"I am Andrea Ricci, and yes, Mr Conti, we do have business to attend to." With a small jerk of his head and shit-eating grin, he motioned for me to proceeded further into the room. All the while, I was couldn't stop thinking; What had I gotten myself into?