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“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” I yelled, my voice echoing back to me through the empty space.
Three-hundred thousand.
That was what my whole supply was worth on the street. Fifty-grand of that I still owed a small percentage on to the fucking biker club I’d bought the guns from in Jersey. And they weren’t exactly the kind of guys who did shit on loan. But we had a history. They wanted the merchandise moved, and knew I was someone who could do that.
Except when, of course, someone stole from me.
I turned away from the empty storage tubs and made my way to the steps, rushing up to the third floor. My office. A place where I kept really fucking sensitive information.
Unlike the open second floor, though, the third had another door. Solid steel. With another security handle.
But with a different code.
And a retinal scanner as well.
Harder to break into because I had it set up to work as a safe room in case anything ever went down that would require me to hide out.
The door beeped as it opened, then closed with a solid click behind me as I slid the internal locks before looking around the space.
This, I was almost certain, was untouched.
My walls of whiteboards with their specially developed cipher that only I knew the code to were intact. And my notebook with an even more complicated code that listed my clients was still exactly where I left it, in a false bottom of my desk. Even my dozen or so personal weapons were all stashed where I kept them.
Not that my personal guns would do me much good when my entire supply was missing.
“Fuck,” I groaned, dropping down into the cracked green leather office chair that had been my grandfather’s when he had this same office, and turned to face my computer.
Yet another passcode had me in, toggling on the only thing that existed on this computer. The saved recordings of the camera feeds.
I dialed it back to when I was last in the building, watching myself move around, double-checking my supply, unloading a few things from the SUV and into a fresh tub that was free of fingerprints, glancing around, then hitting the garage door to make my way out the back.
If I wasn’t looking for it, I might have missed it.
Right in the very corner of the screen after I walked around the corner to the alley between the buildings, where I couldn’t see the loading dock anymore.
A shadow moved, an arm extended, and a brick slid under the door before it could close, making it glitch and slide back up, the lights flashing. An emergency feature I never really gave a second thought to before.
“You fuckers,” I growled, watching as a minute or two later, likely when a scout said I was out of the area, a car pulled down the alley, then drove halfway up the ramp to the door, parked, and they climbed out.
They’d been smart enough to wear ski caps and gloves, but one of the guys was dumb enough to wear a short-sleeved shirt that displayed a tattoo.
I zoomed in when he came back out using my goddamn garden cart to carry guns out to their vehicle, his arm with the ink facing the camera.
“Got you, asshole,” I said, taking a screenshot of what appeared to be to be a flag, then putting it in a reverse image search.
And got… the fucking Czech Republic.
That was unexpected.
I mean, when you thought of big players in the criminal world you thought of the classics, of course. The Italian mafia, the Russian Bratva, and the South American cartels. And, sure, if you wanted to go for other established crews, there were the Irish mob, the Chinese Triad, the Japanese Yakuza. If we wanted to go a little more niche, even the Serbian and Lebanese were, you know, on my radar.
But a Czech crew?
That was way out of left field.
And I kept a finger on the pulse of any significant crime crews in the city since, well, they was most of my clientele.
Clearly, though, these assholes had slipped past my radar.
