Brisco Waters, Private Eye (Part 4) (standard:mystery, 2459 words) [4/5] show all parts
Author: Red Storm	Added: Jul 26 2001	Views/Reads: 2702/2171	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
All hell breaks loose in the Brisco Waters saga as our hero is kidnapped and held against his will at the docks. Finally, everything becomes crystal clear...but is it too late?

It was around 3:00a.m., and I was sure that the company I was riding
with was bad news. I could only hope that the patrol car from the 
alleyway had seen the commotion and tailed us. If it had, our driver 
sure as hell hadn’t noticed, his calm and collected demeanor never 
showing the slightest hint of nervousness as he puffed away on an 
over-sized cigar. The rain outside was beating down hard, and the 
blackness of night only made the situation seem more pestilent. The car 
was moving at an average speed, sloshing through the wasteland of 
abandoned piers and streets along the docks, never once hesitating. I 
could tell these men were professionals, never showing an ounce of 
remorse or anxiety, hardened by actions that made this trip seem all 
too routine. 

We approached a sullen and boarded-up warehouse, which showed no signs
of life from the outside. My gut cramped into a spaghetti ball of 
nerves as two men emerged from the shadows and opened the large front 
garage door. Inside, I could now see, the place was stocked to capacity 
with large wood crates. A dozen men in factory clothes were busy moving 
the crates and stacking them accordingly, dividing the great place into 
numerous maze-like hallways and passages of the containers. Nobody 
seemed to pay attention as our sedan pulled into the warehouse, to the 
center of the building. As the car jerked to a stop, the large garage 
door fell with a loud metallic clang. 

“Get out.” The driver commanded, and I was dragged out of the car by two
large brutes who savagely tied me into a wooden chair with heavy ropes. 
Smaller ropes were wrapped around my wrists and ankles, burning into my 
skin each time I struggled against them. The place smelled of grease, 
which struck me as odd. I tried to guess what the contents of the 
mysterious crates were, but it wasn’t until one was accidentally 
dropped and broken open until I figured it out. The two workmen jumped 
away from the box that they had just shattered, its contents spilling 
out onto the concrete floor. Machine-guns, I finally realized. Tommy 
guns, no less. The guns, ammunition, and accessories were packed neatly 
into every crate in the room, carefully being prepared to ship. But to 
where, exactly? 

“Damn, you two.” It was the voice of one of the men who had kidnapped me
from the casino. He walked from behind a column of crates to my left 
side and grabbed one of the Thompsons from the floor. 

“I told you to be careful with these things!” He screamed, drawing the
attention of everyone working in the place. Immediately he yanked the 
hammer on the gun and leveled it at one of the men who had caused the 
accident. Ignoring the man’s pleas and screams, the mobster blasted 
away at the incompetent man, landing over forty rounds into the man’s 
chest and head. The body fell to the cold floor, a river of blood 
spreading out for all to see. 

“Clean this mess up and get back to work!” The mobster screamed at the
other man who had helped cause the accident. The workman quickly began 
executing the orders. 

“This is one less crate to be sent to our buyers. Tell Dominic to mark
it on his inventory sheet and explain to the Germans what happened.” He 
called to another workman out of my line of sight. 

So that was it. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. These men were
packing and shipping Thompson machine-guns to the German army. Not 
since the Great War had the Germans had access to this kind of 
weaponry, and then it had been used to wage war with allied countries. 
Surely this was a mistake, but I was now noticing the large word ‘BONN’ 
stamped onto the sides of the crates in black ink. So that was it. The 
American forces had refused a contract to buy Thompsons, this was 
common knowledge, but the Germans were interested and these low-life 
thugs were supplying. Sons of bitches. 

“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing...” I muttered as the mobster
approached my chair. He jerked the barrel of the machine-gun level with 
my forehead and started to say something, but was cut off. 

“Get that thing out of his face!” Came a deep roar, a voice I recognized
immediately. 

“Well, well, hello old friend. I never saw this day coming.” The large


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