Chapter 216: The Arms Dealer

2:20 PM. It had already been four hours since Owen learned that Jack's family had been kidnapped.

Driving a Ferrari at high speed down Fair Avenue in the San Fernando Valley, Owen had a specific person in mind—Eddie Murphys. This guy wasn't a professional arms dealer. He was more of a weapons enthusiast who collected all kinds of guns and occasionally dabbled in arms dealing.

But Eddie was the only person Owen could think of in the Valley who could supply him with weapons. Back when Owen worked in the West Hollywood Homicide Division, he'd crossed paths with the chubby guy a few times—an interesting character.

Owen didn't have his number, but he knew where Eddie lived, and it wasn't far. He decided to go directly.

Ten minutes later, Owen pulled up in front of a house in a middle-class neighborhood. Eddie Murphys, it seemed, was doing fairly well for himself—at least well enough to live there.

Knock knock knock~~

Owen knocked on the door. The sound of a TV show came from inside. The guy was probably home, but there was no response.

He knocked again. Finally, a grumbling voice called out, "Whoever you are, you're interrupting my mealtime. If you're not here for a real reason, you're dead…"

A grumpy-looking fat man swung the door open aggressively. But the moment he saw Owen, his expression changed.

"Officer Owen? What are you doing here? Uh… I haven't done anything illegal lately, I swear…" the man said reflexively.

"Then what are you doing?"

Owen pushed past him and entered the house. As soon as he stepped inside, he smelled something familiar.

"Oh, you're eating. Chinese food? Sliced pork in hot chili oil… you've got good taste…"

"Haha, I'm trying it out. Someone told me real Chinese food is different from what I usually eat, so I decided to give it a shot. Gotta say, it smells amazing. They told me this dish has to be eaten while hot—once it cools, it's a different beast…"

Eddie's face lit up as he talked about the food, but Owen had no time for this nonsense.

"Eddie, I need a favor…"

"A favor? What can I help you with?" Eddie looked puzzled.

"I need some weapons. Automatic—" Owen mimed holding a rifle, but Eddie cut him off before he could finish.

"Oh no no no, Officer, you know I gave that up. I'm a law-abiding citizen now. I hardly even go outside these days…"

Owen rolled his eyes. "Eddie, I'm not a cop anymore. I'm CTU. Ever heard of it? Counter Terrorist Unit. Not the FBI. Not ATF. So unless you're selling nukes, it's none of my business. Got it?"

"CTU, huh? Hmm… sounds familiar. What is that, exactly?" Eddie's eyes darted around.

"Counter Terrorist Unit. We deal with threats inside the U.S., from domestic or foreign terrorists. We stop attacks before they happen."

"Uh… okay, that does sound kind of cool… But I really haven't touched any of that stuff in a long time. Look around—no handguns, nothing. If you really need something, you should go see some of the black market guys—I can give you names…"

"Eddie, Eddie!"

Owen cut off his rambling again, clearly annoyed.

"I'm not here for intel. I'm not running a sting. I actually need this gear. I'm on a clock, do you understand?"

"Okay, okay, you're in a rush, but I—"

"EDDIE!"

Owen cut him off again. He could tell this guy was just stalling. No surprise—Owen had busted him before.

"This is the last time I'll say it. I really need the weapons. If you can't help me, then you'd better get out of the business for good. I'll call my guys at the department and have them put twenty-four-hour surveillance on you. You won't be able to make a move. But if you help me, I owe you one. Deal?"

Owen stared him down. Eddie grew uneasy under his gaze, a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

Knew it—no way this guy turned completely legit.

Owen knew he just needed a little more pressure.

"Eddie, I'm on a classified mission. Can't use official gear. That's why I came to you. Don't worry—this won't come back to you. I promise."

"Alright, alright. What exactly do you need?"

The fat man finally gave in. He hadn't been sure before, but now it was clear—no cop would run a sting like this.

"Assault rifle. HK416 or M4A1. Military version. Red dot sight and under-barrel grenade launcher. RCBS tactical vest with ballistic plates. Four grenades. One M9 pistol. Quick-draw holster and four mags…"

Owen rattled off everything he needed in one breath. Meanwhile, Eddie sat back down at the table, listening while shoveling food into his mouth.

When Owen finished, Eddie commented, "Planning to start the Gulf War again? Sounds like you want to make some serious noise…"

Owen shrugged noncommittally. Eddie clumsily picked up a slice of pork with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth, a blissful-pained expression on his face.

"I knew real Chinese food wouldn't be like that General Tso's crap. Screw General Tso—oh God, why didn't I find this restaurant sooner? I love Sichuan cuisine… oh, so spicy…"

He gulped down cold water, fanning his tongue before continuing, "I've got an M4A1. Ready to go. Just swapped the barrel—she's in great shape. You want 30-round standard mags or extended 60-rounders?"

Owen thought for a moment and chose the 30-round standard mags.

The extended ones saved time on reloads, but he was used to the standard mags. His shooting rhythm and round-counting habits were based on them. Switching could throw him off.

"Want a vertical grip?"

"No."

Owen never got used to vertical grips—it was a personal preference.

"I don't have the under-barrel grenade launcher, but I've got the vest and ballistic plates—DBT RCBS tactical vest, you'll love it. For grenades, how about MK3A2s?"

"That works."

Eddie was referring to the MK3A2 offensive grenade. Owen had heard of it but never used one. Grenades were more tightly controlled than firearms, and most dealers didn't keep them in stock. Having any at all was already a bonus—he wasn't going to be picky.

As Eddie talked, he practically finished off the whole dish. Owen noticed his chopstick skills were getting better.

"So spicy, so spicy…" Eddie kept wiping the sweat pouring from his forehead with a towel.

"Alright, let's go check out the gear."

"Wait—it's not here?"

"Of course not. What kind of idiot would keep that kind of stuff at home?"

Eddie led Owen out. When he saw the Ferrari parked out front, he whistled.

"CTU pays that well?"

Owen shrugged again. If he told him the car was commandeered, would Eddie start wondering if Owen planned to shoot him and keep the gear?

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