Read Online Countdown: H Hour by Tom Kratman - Free Book Online Page B

Five years?”
    Without stopping he answered, “Closer to six, Gracie. Been busy.”
    “Hmmph,” she grunted. Clearly “busy” was not an acceptable excuse. Careful of her well-shaped and painted nails, she reached a delicate finger, bearing a perfect almond nail, down to press a button. From the door came a loud buzz and the sound of a bolt being electronically thrown.

    The office behind the door was nothing remarkable. A wooden desk held a computer, along with a pile of files, most quite thin. There were a couple of loose papers that looked like invoices. Behind the desk stood a couple of tall bookcases, holding titles like Small Arms of the World and Jane’s Infantry Weapons , as well as three ring binders hand labeled with sundry titles and years for various gun magazines, almost entirely American. A few other binders bore official sounding names or numbers. Those were probably the local firearms laws and regulations.
    On the wall above the desk were several graduation certificates, ranging from Advanced Handgun to Submachine Gun (Distinguished Graduate) from Front Sight Firearms Training Institute in Las Vegas, Nevada. There was also a certificate for the Tactical Explosive Entry Course, from the Philippine National Police Special Action Force. Next to that was a BS degree in Criminology from the UPHSL, the University of Perpetual Help System Laguna. Lastly, though placed above them all, was a promotion certificate to the rank of Master Sergeant (Reserve) from the Philippine Army.
    At the desk, and matching the names on the certificates, sat one Bayani—Ben—Arroyo. He looked very damned young to be a master sergeant, even in the reserves.
    At the sound of the bolt retracting, Ben had swiveled his chair to face the door. As soon as he recognized Lox, he was out of the chair, pumping the American’s fist and pounding his shoulder. “Dooode, where ya been?”
    Before Lox could answer, or even introduce Graft, Ben directed both him and Graft to chairs against the wall opposite the bookcases.
    “Ah, never mind. You won’t tell me anyway. Whatcha need? Right . . . stupid question. What kind of guns do you need?”
    “Depends on what you have, Ben.”
    “Right.” The Filipino turned and walked the step and a half to the bookcase. He took from it a relatively thin binder, which he opened and handed to Lox. “These are what I have in stock right now.”
    Lox flipped a page, then another, and then a third. “Prices have gone up, I see. Police making life difficult?”
    Ben shook his head. “No, dude, demand has skyrocketed. Nobody’s happy with just a shotgun and a revolver anymore. People, especially people who can afford better, are running scared. They want the real deal and fuck the law.”
    “Business must be good then,” Lox said.
    Ben put out a hand, palm down, and waved it a few times. “It is and it isn’t. I’m tellin’ ya, dude, crime has gotten a lot worse than the government will admit to. I lose customers all the time; kidnappings, robberies, murders, you name it.”
    Lox shrugged; times were tough all over. He handed the binder to Graft, saying, “Pick what you think the men will need.”
    Graft began to thumb it. “Right off, I want a half dozen sets of under the jacket, level three, partial body armor. These En Garde Executive vests look about right.”
    “What sizes . . . by the way, who are you?”
    “My fa—” Lox started to say. “No, wait a minute; your fault. You never gave me a chance. Ben, this is my . . . co-worker, Michael. He knows what he needs better than I do.”
    “Okay. Anyway, Michael, what sizes?”
    From a pocket Graft pulled out a small notebook in which he had the jacket sizes for each man in his team. He read off those of the six who would be going to the second safe house.
    “I can handle everything except the really big guy,” Ben said. “Just not a lot of demand for large sizes here. I can get you an old PASGT in extra large. It won’t hold SAPI