Suppliers Bait and Switch...Not Really

A goodly number of miles away from my little bungalow and well away from prying eyes, there is an old abandoned strip mine. More than a hundred feet deep and faced with solid rock on all sides, it's an excellent place to experiment with things that could do an impressive amount of damage when handled improperly.

Things like a Sphere of the Lung.

There were quite a few scars on those weathered stone walls, and I added several more before I quit for the evening. I sat back on my haunches and stared balefully at the softly glowing sphere as it hovered before me, the threads of color slowly dancing beneath its translucent surface implying a tranquility I did not share.

Damn it, if I could just get a handle on the blasted thing, all of the work, the preparations both Stefan and I were struggling with would be completely unnecessary. Some tasks were easy; the Lung levitation trick, that strange merging with the surroundings, moving from place to place. Try most anything else, though, and suddenly controlling the sphere was like keeping a grip on a greased pig. Power went spearing off in any direction but the one you wanted it to go. What had changed? In my final battle with the magus Niata the power of the sphere had surrounded and infused me, its incredible power becoming an extension of my will. But now. . . . Damn it, what had changed?

Sighing in frustration, I took the sphere into my mouth once again, that strange connectedness quickly expanding my awareness to encompass my surroundings. I concentrated for a moment to reduce myself to a more manageable size, the sphere following suit (one of the few things I'd learned to do with it). A flicker of thought, a quiet snap, and I was back in my modest home.

Another snap, and the sphere vanished from my jaws, transporting itself back to its ancient resting place beneath a certain sandstone cliff. It would return to me at my mental call, although I did not know why. A lingering effect of that connectedness, I suspected. . . .

My mane jangled when I ruefully shook my head at all the suspicions, hunches and malformed theories swarming about in my tiny little mind, then went quiet as my form shifted and flowed. On two legs I wandered into the bathroom and had myself a nice, long hot shower. Feeling much better, I toweled myself off, catching sight of myself in the mirror above the sink.

I paused, frowning as I studied my body. You're getting soft, Sarge; too much easy living. My frown deepened, then my form twisted and changed again, the amount of weight my hands supported on the edge of the sink increasing as they covered themselves in gleaming scales.

It was strange. When I first found my true form, it had been downright snakelike in its almost-painful leanness. Now, as I surveyed my glittering form in the glass, I realized that leanness was still there, but now wrapped in hard, bulging muscle. So gradually that I hadn't even noticed, my true form had been growing stronger, even as my human side faded. It was almost as if my true form was slowly sucking the life out of my other half and making it it's own.

The golden eyes reflected in the glass gleamed balefully as I felt the corners of my hard mouth curving down into a scowl. This was unacceptable; if I ever did succeed in rescuing my children, I suspected it would be by dint of human guile, not dragon power, and allowing a mission-critical portion of myself to slide like this simply could not be tolerated.

Scarcely two hours had passed before I found myself at a small gym not too far from my place and approaching the main desk. The burly, shaven-headed guy behind the counter looked up from some paperwork to give me a quizzical glance. "Yes? May I help you, sir?"

"Could be," I replied wryly. "I retired from the Army not all that long ago, and already I'm starting to look like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Think you can help me solve this little problem?"

The big man evidently caught the pun, for his face split into a grin so broad that for a moment I thought his head was going to separate into two halves. "Yes, sir; I think we can help you with that."

-The fishing boats go out across the evening water

-Smuggling guns and arms across the Spanish border

-The wind whips up the waves so loud

-The ghost moon sails upon the clouds

-And turns the rifles into silver

-On the border. . . .

Another gust of wind rocked the rental truck on its springs. I shivered slightly, pulling the coat tighter about me as I scanned the slowly rusting mountains of scrap metal that surrounded the parked vehicle. That done, I spared a glance at Deebs, who sat behind the wheel and looked none-too happy himself. Even more unhappy than the evening in his motel room two nights ago when he told me he had a line on the remainder of our gear.

"So; why the long face?" I'd asked.

Deebs had shaken his head. "I don't normally deal with these people, Max. Word has it they play pretty rough. But, they say they have what we need." He paused, gave me a hopeful glance. "Can't we hold off for a few days more? I'm sure one of my regular sources'll cough something up pretty soon. . . ."

"No, afraid not," I sighed. "We're already behind schedule, and the opposition could move at any time. We can't afford to wait anymore."

Deebs had grimaced, then raised his hands in mock-surrender and let them fall. "Okay, man. I'll go warm up the truck."

I nodded. "Good; and I'll make a phone call or two while you're at it."

Thankfully, I'd had the foresight to pre-arrange some leave-time from my job. Two days of hard driving later, there we sat, in an enormous scrap yard not all that far from the Mexican border, listening to a cold, blustering night wind whistle around our truck. I gave Deebs another glance. "Think they'll show?"

My Texan friend snorted quietly, refilling his coffee cup from the thermos on the seat between us as he answered. "You kiddin'? With the amount we said we'd pay for this stuff, the Devil Himself couldn't keep them from showing." Deebs sipped some of his bitter brew, then tossed me a ghost of a grin. "Don't worry man; they'll be here." The smile faded as he turned away to gaze out the window again. "Then we'll see."

Another hour passed in silence. It was a little past midnight when another truck pulled into the clearing between the heaps of metallic garbage, situating itself opposite us. A pause, a flash of headlights, then those lights extinguished and everything went still.

Deebs looked over to me. "Ready?"

I chuckled, a trifle nervously. "No; but let's do it anyway."

We climbed out of our truck and into that evil wind. I turned and reached back in, dragging out a large, heavy suitcase, lugging it with me as we trudged out to a point roughly midway between the two vehicles, where we stopped and waited.

A full minute passed, then the doors on the other truck opened and three men got out. I gauged them as they approached. Two were obvious muscle, the heavy coats draping their massive frames doubtlessly hiding some serious firepower. The third was shorter and more slender than the two goons who flanked him, and was more expensively dressed. His expression was completely blank as they approached, but then changed to a smirk as they came to a stop about three meters in front of us.

A pause while Shorty gave us the once-over, the smirk broadening. I was beginning to dislike him when he finally spoke. "Got the cash?"

Deebs nodded. "Yeah." He gestured to me, and I placed the suitcase on the ground between the two sides. I popped the latches and opened the case, turning it so the wind wouldn't try to steal what lay within.

Shorty waited until I had retreated, then knelt and inspected the case's contents for several moments. Finally he nodded with satisfaction, stood, and turned to gesture to the truck behind him. "What you want is in there. We trade trucks, and we're outta here."

"Fine," I spoke for the first time, "just as soon as we check the stuff."

There was a deadly pause. The two goons had gone stone still, and Shorty turned back to give me an icy and just who the hell are you? look. Finally he shrugged, his smirk returning. "Fine by us."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, then tossed them to me. Then he gave a florid bow, his arm sweeping back to indicate the truck. "Your merchandise awaits."

Deebs gave me a glance, but I did not look directly at him as we moved past the others and headed for the truck, Shorty and his goons trailing along behind. I knew what Deebs was thinking; this stinks to high heaven. I had a pretty good idea as to what was coming next, but kept my peace, preferring to finish out this little part of the play.

We reached the back of the truck. I undid the padlock, slid up the door and motioned for Deebs to climb in. There was a jumble of crates piled on the floor. Deebs went to one and worked at the lid, at last prying it back and looking inside. There was long pause, then at last my old friend reached inside, and slowly pulled out a rusty piece of iron pipe.

Scrap metal.

There was a click behind me, and I turned to see Shorty and his goons, each one now holding a weapon. Still smirking, Shorty shook his head in mock-sadness. "Y'know, I really wish you hadn't done that," he began almost conversationally, the chrome-plated revolver in his hand held at a jaunty angle. "Yeah; you'd've been out some cash, but at least you'd've still been alive."

I sighed, finally allowing my expression of contempt to surface. "And I really wish you hadn't done this." I scratched my right ear, then continued. "Leave this one alive, Stefan."

For someone in his line of work, Shorty was pathetically slow. It took a full second for my final words to soak in. Then his eyes widened and he spun, the revolver coming up. His goons were already moving; lunging in opposite directions, desperately seeking cover when the first supersonic round cracked its way through the clearing and Shorty's gun arm shattered.

A moment, then there was another crack, and the goon on the left went limp in mid-step, his inert body toppling forward to hit the dusty ground hard. The guy on the right lasted another three paces, but then there was one last crack. He convulsed, lurched forward another step or two before crumpling to his knees, then slowly fell forward onto his face.

Silence. I left that stillness untouched for the count of ten, then slowly arose from where I'd flung myself when the rounds began coming in. Dusting myself off as best I could, I glanced towards the back of the truck. Deebs was cautiously peering out, and caught my eye. "You okay?"

I nodded. "You?"

"I'm fine."

"Good." I turned around and trudged back, adrenalin crash curdling my stomach as I went to meet the shadowy figure emerging from amidst the piles of debris. Our eyes met, and I felt my lips stretching into a thin smile. That smile widened as my eyes lowered to study the vicious-looking piece of military hardware the dark-clad figure was carrying. "Stefan, there seems to be no end to your talents."

Stefan smiled slightly, gave a small bow. "Thank you, my Lord," he murmured quietly. As he straightened his eyes looked past me into the clearing, then into mine, one eyebrow raised in query. I paused for a thoughtful moment, then indicated the two motionless heaps upon the ground. Then I turned back to the ex-Stasi agent and made a small flicking motion against my throat with my thumb. Stefan gazed at me for a second, his face unreadable, then he once again made that slight bow.

Turning away from him, I headed back to where Shorty crouched on his knees, making small whimpering noises as he cradled what was left of his arm. Pausing only to pick up his revolver, I slammed my knee into his back between the shoulder blades, my free hand grabbing his hair and bowing the stunned man backwards over my braced leg, the weapon's short muzzle burying itself in his throat, the business end up hard against one of the carotid arteries.

"Congratulations, sir;" I began with a strange, icy calm as I deliberately thumbed back the hammer "you've annoyed us. Now, how do you think we should respond to this little faux-pas of yours, hmmm?" I asked as I ground the revolver deeper into his throat. Shorty made little response, save for some gargling noises and rolling his eyes like a terrified horse. Several times his frantic gaze sought the surrounding garbage piles. "Oh, you had someone out there, as well?" I asked sweetly "Well, don't worry yourself about them; they're dead. Just like you."

Shorty shuddered at that, and a faint whining noise issued from him. Something else issued from him as well, and I wrinkled my nose at the smell. "That's right, short-stuff. Frankly, the only reason you're still breathing for the moment is because you might still be useful to us."

I flung his head forward, bent, and lifted him to his feet, my free hand holding his mangled arm in a cruel grip. A half-strangled scream came from Shorty's lips as he struggled to his tip-toes in a desperate attempt to relieve the agonizing pressure. Maintaining my merciless hold I walked him back to the cab of his truck. "You see, we really need that stuff we tried to buy from you, so we're willing to try this again. Forty-eight hours from now, same price. If you don't deliver, or you don't show, you stop being useful to us. And that would be a real bad thing to be."

I spun him around and pushed. He cried out as his back slammed against the rider's side door of his truck. He started to say something, but choked off, eyes rolling, as his own weapon buried itself in his throat once again. "You see, Shorty, I think we've decided that we don't like you very much. So, if you screw with us again, what we're going to do is not so much kill you as erase you." I drew my face to within inches of the silly little thug's, my voice dropping to a hiss. "First we're going to kill all your associates. Then we're going to kill your woman, then your kids, then your parents, your siblings, your relatives . . . hell, we're going to kill your fucking dog if you even think about jerking us around again. GOT IT?"

Poor little Shorty jerked like a marionette, then nodded frantically. "Yeah. Yeah," he gasped weakly.

I released him to slump against the door panel. "Get out of here. Forty-eight hours, Shorty, then we come for you." I paused. "And get that arm fixed. It'd be a damned shame if we had to dig you up and kill you twice."

Shorty made a sound like a cross between a swallow and a choke, then, his eyes never leaving mine, he clawed open the truck's door and began to crawl inside, making little grunting noises as his wounded arm bumped into various obstructions.

I started slightly when Stefan gently cleared his throat behind me, then turned to eye the grisly cargo he gripped in each hand, his weapon slung over one shoulder. I nodded my thanks, gripped one of the round, surprisingly heavy objects by the nifty carrying handle on the top. "Oh, and don't forget your buddies, Shorty."

The little thug had just about made his way to the driver's seat and had finally looked away, evidently scrabbling for the keys. He looked up in time to see the object sailing through the air, bouncing once upon the bench seat to land squarely in his lap, wedging between his belt and the steering wheel, the still-open eyes gazing up at him.

Shorty screamed, high and shrill. He was still screaming when I tossed the remainder of Stefan's cargo at him and slapped the door closed, then turned and walked away, Stefan trailing along behind like the specter of Death.

Deebs was waiting for me a little ways from the rear of the gun-runners' truck, staring at what was left of one of Shorty's former goons. He shook his head and turned to meet us when he heard our approaching footsteps upon the junk-strewn ground. "Man, I don't ever want you pissed-off at me," he stated fervently.

"Pissed-off?" I paused, considering for a moment, then continuing with a growing heat. "Yeah, I'm pissed-off. Pissed-off because my whole damn life's been turned upside down, pissed-off because people are pinking at me simply because I'm me, pissed-off because those same bastards are messing over kids to get at me . . . and you know something? I could've kissed that idiot back there when he decided to screw us over, because by God I really needed something to KILL!"

Deebs drew back, eyes blinking warily. "Um, yeah. What you said." He blinked again, then lifted his gaze to my shadow. "Who's our backup man?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

It took several seconds for me to cool myself down to the point that I could answer clearly. I had my back to Deebs so he couldn't see my talons slowing turning back into human fingernails. Finally I glanced over my shoulder. "That's Stefan. He and I hooked up awhile back. He's a good man to have watching your backside." I turned fully, noting the glint in Stefan's eyes as he stared coldly at Deebs. "Stefan, this is my dear friend Deebs," I started, heavily emphasizing the word dear. "He's been my buddy for many years, and I trust him completely." I finished carefully.

Stefan's eyes flicked over to me, widening slightly, then taking on a faintly pleading look. I returned the look stonily, and finally his gaze dropped and he bowed slightly. Turning, he repeated the bow to Deebs. "It is an honor, sir," he sighed.

"Ahh, don't call me 'sir,' I work for a living. Call me Deebs. Everybody else does, 'cept when they're calling me other things."

The ex-Stasi agent gave me another glance from beneath Deebs' friendly barrage, this time the pleading look was stronger. I smiled slightly, shrugged a shoulder, then began to trudge back to our truck with the other two in tow, one more reluctantly than the other.

"Hey! Is that a Dragunov you're carrying? Man, I haven't seen one of those since. . . ."