(A/N: Good God, the last week of school was Hell. 4 essays, a ton of math work, an archeology report, and all of it done in a mere 6 days! Thank God school is out and I can relax a little. I got the idea for this one after reading some old Punisher comics. Also, I think that the ending to the last chapter was a little iffy, so I went back and changed it. Feel free to look it over and see how it compares. Please Read & Review.)

The Florida Keys

There was a time, Jane Watson would later write in her diary, when the Keys were a pretty rough place. In the old days, there were buccaneers and slavers, Prohibition smugglers and cigarette boat hustlers. These days, it's mostly gentrified resorts and rubber alligator tourist dumps. But you can still find some trouble, if you look hard enough.

And trouble she had found; Jane, along with her partner, Sherlock Holmes, had been investigating a high roller running guns into the Caribbean Basin. They'd been picked up from ex-Soviet republics looking to cash in on their arsenals, and the trail had led them to a small bar in the Keys. Unfortunately, the locals hadn't taken kindly to them and now Jane and Sherlock found themselves embroiled in a massive bar fight.

"Holmes, watch out on your right!" yelled Jane, barely dodging a thrown chair. She saw one of the patrons draw a pistol from his jacket and take aim.

Holmes barrel-rolled under a table and drew his Colt, putting a 230-grain slug into the man's gun-hand. The sound of gunshots spooked the crowd, and the bar emptied in seconds.

"I believe," said Holmes, "that it is time to rethink our tactics, Watson."

"Definitely," said Jane, "my parents think we're here for spring break, and I'm really not looking forward to explaining why I've got so many bruises."

Both of them sat down at the bar. The bartender looked up from his newspaper and said, "You kids sure know how to chase away business."

"What can I say?" said Jane sarcastically, "We like to drink alone."

"Would you be willing to answer a few of the questions that brought us here?" asked Holmes.

"Depends on the questions," said the bartender, feeling for the shotgun he kept beneath the bar.

"We are searching for a man selling Romanian-made AK-47s, rocket-propelled grenades, and Tokarev semi-automatic pistols."

"Interestin'," said the bartender, not looking interested in the least.

"Have you heard anything of this nature?" asked Holmes.

"Could be," said the bartender, "Folks like to talk with their booze. Although, I have a hard time rememberin' what they talk about."

"Perhaps this will improve your memory," said Holmes, throwing a roll of hundred-dollar bills onto the bar.

"I heard there's a guy dealin' heavy out on Manatee Shoal," said the bartender, pocketing the cash, "All Soviet-made junk. The gun bunnies around here like to throw the names around. Makes 'em feel tough."

"How do we know this isn't just bar talk and bull?" said Jane, leaning forward slightly.

"I been pullin' taps in the Keys for thirty years," said the bartender, "My B.S. meter's real sensitive. This is righteous."

"Come, Watson," said Holmes, sliding off the stool and hurrying out, "the game is afoot!"

A day later, Holmes waited outside the Hotel Fiesta for one of the gunrunners to make an appearance. Between a few more well-placed bribes and Jane checking the hotel registries on her computer, Holmes was almost certain he had the right men. Jane was currently sitting in the lobby, waiting for one of them to make an appearance.

"Holmes," said Jane into the small 2-way radio she carried, "one of our guys is coming out into the parking lot."

"Elaborate," replied Holmes.

"The one that looks like somebody put an Armani suit on a gorilla," said Jane, "He's heading toward the parking lot."

The man stepped out of the hotel, looked about and, satisfied that nothing was out of the ordinary, walked leisurely to a blue car across the lot. He opened the trunk and checked to make sure that nothing was out place, when suddenly Holmes sprang upon the man, slamming the trunk down on his arms.

"Whom are you working with?" asked Holmes.

"Go to Hell!" spat the man.

Holmes pressed the trunk door down harder and grabbed the man by the scalp with his other hand. "I have the rest of the day to lean here," said Holmes.

The man struggled for a minute, but finally said, "Callador. His name is Javier Callador."

"Just the two of you?" asked Holmes, pushing down even harder.

"Yes! Just the two of us!" said the man, "There's a lot of money. Plenty to go around. Maybe we can deal."

Holmes reached out his hand and squeezed the man's carotid and jugular, causing him to pass out. He then hefted the man into the trunk of the car and closed it.

Meanwhile, in Callador's room, the gunrunner sat on his bed, going through his business papers.

"Cliff," said the tawny-haired woman sitting at the nearby desk, "When will you be finished with business so we can play?"

Callador smiled and said, "Soon, soon. A few more details, and I am all yours, Chiquita."

There was a knock at the door, and Callador instinctively gripped his gun.

"Were you expecting someone?" asked the woman.

"It's probably just the maid," said Callador, "Answer it, babe."

"But I just painted my nails."

"Screw your nails and get the door."

As soon as she began to turn the knob, Holmes leapt into the room, grabbed the woman and fired his taser, landing the barbs in Callador's chest. He shocked Callador until he was fairly certain that he would be unable to resist.

"Sit down," said Holmes to the woman, releasing her.

"Please do not kill me," she said timidly.

"Remain silent, and that will be unnecessary," said Holmes. He hated to be so rough with an innocent bystander, but it was the best way to ensure her cooperation. Holmes scanned the room quickly and, seeing nothing else of any immediate value, gathered up all of Callador's papers. A quick check under the bed revealed a large case filled with more than a hundred thousand American dollars and an American passport made out to Cliff Callador. Holmes folded the papers and put them carefully in his jacket.

"Enjoy the rest of your vacation, ma'am," said Holmes, leaving the hotel room and shutting the door behind him. He made a quick call to the local police to have them arrest Callador, and hurried away to meet Jane.

Seattle

A day later, having examined the papers, Mycroft gave Sherlock and Jane the verdict on them.

"These are end-use papers, invoices, and customs forms," said Mycroft, "Everything you would need to trade firearms internationally. According to these, the weapons in question are a legitimate transaction of Romanian assault weapons to Quadid, an Arabic republic on the Persian Gulf."

"So why is Callador's passport stamped with visas for Puerto Dulce?" asked Jane.

"It would seem that the Quadis are helping him to trade in arms on the black market," said Holmes.

"And let me guess," said Jane, "one of the corporations involved in the deal is a Moriarty front company."

"It would appear so," said Mycroft, typing away at his computer absently.

"What's the story on Puerto Dulce?" asked Jane, "I've never heard of the place."

"It is an independent island republic, off of the coast of Venezuela," said Holmes, checking the encyclopedia, "there is little information beyond its status as a former colony of Portugal and is home to noble families that came over with Cortes."

"So what are they going to do with the guns?" asked Jane, "Redistribute them to the drug trade all over the basin?"

"I fear so," said Mycroft, "and it is imperative that we stop this from happening."

"And how are we supposed to do that?" asked Jane, "We're a small, emphasis on small, private detective agency, and Puerto Dulce is an island fortress. They have the largest arms cache in the Caribbean, outside of Guantanamo Bay."

"You and I shall board two separate planes to Puerto Dulce," said Holmes, "You shall be going under the guise of a media heiress from Monte Carlo. Your father is an official of the government, a distant man who nonetheless gives you whatever you ask of him, hence your vacationing in South America unchaperoned."

Holmes handed her a passport with her picture in it. It gave her name as "Mercedes Lefevre," and declared her a citizen of Monaco.

"Ignoring the question of why you a false passport with my picture in it lying around," said Jane, "Who will you be going as?"

"Why," said Holmes with a sardonic grin, "I shall be meeting the head of the Villamos clan as Javier 'Cliff' Callador."

"Holmes, are you crazy?" said Jane, "They'll know you aren't Callador in a minute! Yes, you've got about the same physical build and you can dress yourself like him, but you haven't had a chance to study his personality and mannerisms!"

"This would be a problem," said Holmes, "but the letters we found among his papers indicate that he never met any of them face to face. All of their dealings were done through third parties, anonymous to both sides."

"Then how do you explain why you're down there?" asked Jane.

"My local contact failed to meet me," said Holmes, "And I have another arms transaction in the works in Ukraine, hence my need to complete our business quickly. The only question, Watson, is, are you with me?"

Jane sighed and said, "Okay. I always wanted to visit the Caribbean."

Puerto Dulce: Day 1

Holmes' plane was the first to arrive on the island. Having spent the entire 7 hours of his flight studying his dossier, Holmes was almost certain he'd be able to convince the buyers that he was Callador. He was never more thankful that he could speak fluent Spanish.

Holmes stepped off the plane, and into the tropical sun. It was hot in Puerto Dulce, far hotter than the Keys.

"¿Hey hombre, usted oye eso?" asked a Colombian who was standing next to him.

Holmes pricked up his ears. He did indeed hear something, a report that occurred again and again. Then, he realized what it was.

"¡Fuego automático! ¡Consiga abajo!" shouted Holmes, diving to the ground. He hit the tarmac just as a truck carrying a gang of army-fatigued men came around the corner, spraying bullets in every direction.

"¡Viva la Revolución!" cried the attackers, "¡Viva Gamos!"

Holmes silently cursed himself for checking his guns through baggage. All he had was a ballistic knife, and the revolutionaries were coming closer. Then, he spotted it: An M1911 pistol, lying near the hand of a dead security guard.

Time to contribute to the chaos, thought Holmes grimly. He leapt out of his crouched position and jumped at the gun, the recoil of the .45 ACP feeling like a friend's handshake as he fired at the tires of the truck. The truck flipped over, crushing the revolutionaries beneath it.

"Señor Callador!" called a voice in English. Holmes turned to see a man driving a cream-puff Cadillac, "This way! Come with me before the soldiers come to question you!"

Holmes quickly deduced that this man was working for his intended target, as no self-righteous guerilla would dare to drive such a car, and ran to him, sliding across the hood and into an empty seat.

"Where are we going?" asked Holmes, disguising his voice to sound like a roughened thug.

"To see the Jefe," said the driver.

Holmes said nothing for the rest of the drive, taking in the sight of the shanty town that was the capital of Puerto Dulce. He remembered stories his brother had told of being in countries at war: the edge in the eyes of the people, the poverty, the heat, it all added up to a powder keg set to blow.

"We are here, Señor," said the driver, opening the car door for him.

Holmes gave the mansion a quick but thorough glance as he was lead inside. He estimated it at about 100 acres, and half of it house. Its age confirmed that this was old money and not a run-of-the-mill drug czar. Finally, they stopped in a large sitting room, where Holmes was greeted by a dashing man in a white smoking jacket.

"Señor Callador, so pleasant to meet you in person," said the man, "I am Ernesto Villamos."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Villamos," said Holmes, "but I would have preferred we dealt in secret."

"I apologize for my assistant," said Villamos, pouring some liquor from a nearby cabinet, "I thought he was trustworthy. Perhaps his love of money outweighed his love for me, no?"

"Or his fear," said Holmes, accepting the glass offered by Villamos.

Villamos laughed and said, "As you say. That is what I like about dealing with Americans. You get to the point. Did I phrase that correctly?"

"I guess," said Holmes, "Now, what about the guns?"

"Ha!" said Villamos, "Just what I admire so much." His voice took on a more authoritative tone. "But we are in MY country now. First we relax, then we talk about filthy money and guns. Ramon, show Mr. Callador where he will be staying."

A manservant appeared to show Holmes to his room. As he was about to leave, Villamos called to him.

"Oh, by the way, my sister has been asking about you since we received your fax."

Holmes raised an eyebrow and said, "Sister?"

A sultry voice from the other side of the room said, "Cliff, how good it is to see you again."

Holmes looked and turned pale as a sheet. It was the tawny-haired woman who had been in the real Callador's hotel room!

"And how," she said, slinking her body up against his, "are you enjoying your vacation so far?"

Hey hombre, usted oye eso - Hey man, you hear that?

Fuego automático - Automatic gunfire!

Consiga abajo - Get down!

Jefe - Boss

(A/N: I know, I don't usually break up a story into chapters, but this one is going to be long, so I might as well. Beside, it'll take MUCH less time to update, this way. Please Review.)

TO BE CONTINUED.