WHY DOES NO ONE REVIEW MY STORIES? AM I REALLLY THAT BAD?
"The Port of Miami today was host to a shootout between police and what is expected to be a lone gunman. The gunman appeared to be firing an assault weapon. No police have been hurt-"
"The gunman has been spotted on a security feed in the west side of the Port. As you can see, the footage is grainy, and although repeated attempts to enhance the image has been attempted, no positive-"
"A, what some would call, terrorist attack on the Port of Miami has occurred today. Miami-Dade Police were attacked, numbers still unknown. The attackers were armed with fully automatic weapons. Police so far have declined to comment."
The woman again changed the channel. Every news organization in Florida, and a few nation wide ones, too, were running this story. She seethed inside, the anger building with every sound bite.
She spun around and knocked Trev in the head, with an audible whack, with the remote she held.
"Ow!" he cried, rubbing where the remote had hit, "Jesus, Lyn. Is this what I get for saving you from the coppers?"
"Don't call me Lyn," she seethed, "What the hell was that about?"
"No way you would have gotten out with the way they were going," Trev defended, "This way, you cover remains intact."
"You could have been killed!" she argued fiercely, "Or worse, captured!"
To any one but them it would seem like they had there priorities mixed up.
But at least when the police kill you, you go out with a fight. If the police caught Trev, he would be a sitting duck.
"But I wasn't," he defended, "I saw that shit was going to hit the fan. So I improvised so you wouldn't get hit by turd."
"Why thank you very much," somehow, Trev did not think she was very thankful, "Now, promise me you won't do any thing stupid-slash-suicidal till we have these bastards."
"I promise," Trev deadpanned, "What'd ya get?"
"Pictures," she gestured at a laptop on the bar, "Some of it has some scientific-medical stuff on it. I was hoping you could translate. And I found that," she pointed at a shiny metal briefcase, "Haven't got it open yet. What are you doing?"
Trev popped his head out from under the bar, saying "This isn't a mini-bar. This is bigger than your average bar! An Irishman would think this too much booze!"
"It's a luxury villa in a five star hotel," she said exasperatedly, "You get your money's worth."
"You mean you get my money's worth," Trev said.
"Speaking of which, how do you pay for this?"
"I stole some money from al-Queda," he said off-handedly, and then looked at the photos on the screen, "Let's see... Testosterone cypionate, that's an anabolic steroid, popular in Europe, Isoflurine, that's medical grade anesthesia, Antenex, it's Diazepam sold in Australia, that's an antibiotic, antiviral, medical grade cocaine, this is all stuff you find in hospitals."
"What about this?" she held up a small bottle.
"Thaat... Oh Jesus," Trev said.
"Hey, Calleigh," Natalia called, rolling from under Horatio's Hummer, "What's this?"
She held up what looked like a metal dart, about a half inch in diameter with fins about an inch long.
"Looks like a fletché," Calleigh said, "But it's a pretty big one. Most aren't even half this size."
"Aren't fletchés used in anti-personnel tank rounds?" Natalia asked.
"That depends on the round," Calleigh said, "The Germans like to use ball bearings in their anti-personnel rounds. They bounce."
"Teutonic thoroughness sure is something, huh?" Natalia said dryly.
"Otherwise a Mercedes wouldn't be such a nice car," Calleigh returned with a smile, and it suddenly dropped, "Wait a minute," she hurried over to a table ten feet away. It was cluttered with various items in evidence bags. She picked one up, removing the item. It looked like half a dumbell, cut down the middle, about two inches long with an almost inch radius. At the center was a half circle. The fletché fit the half circle perfectly.
"It's a sabot round," Calleigh said, "The fletché is wrapped around a plastic 'shoe'" she held up the item, "and when falls off when it exists the barrel. It allows a smaller projectile to be used in a much bigger gun."
"Sabot round? Like in Transformers?"
"No such thing as a 40mm Sabot round"it had ruined the movie for her "This is custom made. Very crudely done too. I'll run it through the system, see if anything pops up."
"I'll finish processing, see if I can take some of the workload from you by running these bullets. Ryan and Erick are still processing the scene at the Port."
"When you care enough to send the best," Ryan quipped as he took a picture of a half meter wide hole in the ground.
"You hear that all the 'guards' will survive?" Erick said.
"Really?"
"Yep. Worst injury was a concussion," Erick said, "Something to do with physics and shockwaves."
"Okay, now, our shooter was up there," Ryan said, looking up at the top of a Connex about 150 yards away, "He fired grenades down here too... what?"
"The lock was broken, probably by bolt cutters," Erick said, "So one guy makes them run, the other sneaks in and steals something?"
"Maybe," Ryan said, "Let's take a look."
Inside were crates of movies, some Indian chick-flick, that hadn't been touched. At the rear, however, separated by a very realistic fake wall, were crates of another sort. Refrigerated ones. Ryan pried open one, and looked to see hundreds of bottles of pills, syringe bottles of something-or-the-other, and other medical who-ha.
"This is enough to run a hospital," Ryan said, "None of this stuff looks to be illegal, why resort to smuggling it?"
"Getting it legally requires a paper trail," Erick said, "Whoever wants this wants it discreetly."
Ryan opened another box, and said, "Jesus Christ."
Inside were no less than thirty fully automatic AK-74 assault rifles. In separate crates were ammunition and magazines. Lots of ammunition and magazines.
"Hey Ryan," Erick said, "Look at this."
Erick was shining his light on the top of of one of the crates. Like everything else, it was covered in a thin layer of dust. Except for a square the size of a brief case.
"What was so important that they left the guns?"
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