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Pat*eon : Belamy20
Naruto: Uchiha Shiroge Rebellion
The shop owner led them into the back room. Rows of firearms hung on the walls, looking no different from the ones out front at first glance.
But the mont he started talking, it beca clear these weapons had a very different origin.
"These rifles are military-grade. A quick mod and they'll go full-auto. Most armies still use this exact model."
He pulled several old ammo crates from under the table.
"These are full-power rounds smuggled in from overseas. One hit to the arm and it'll take the whole thing off."
Brando's eyes lit up. He grabbed an AR-pattern rifle, worked the bolt with practiced ease, and checked the barrel and internals.
"Not bad. These are well maintained."
He patted the receiver and looked back at the owner.
"Got anything with more punch?"
"Of course."
The fat shop owner could tell these three knew what they were doing. His jowls bunched up in a wide grin.
He walked over to an unassuming tal cabinet in the corner, unlocked it with a key, and swung the doors open.
Even Lionel let out a low whistle.
Several AKMs and a tripod-mounted M60 general-purpose machine gun. Pure, brutal beauty.
"How about these?" the owner said proudly. "Hard currency from Eastern Europe. Tough as hell. One burst will cut a wild boar clean in half."
Luke picked up one of the AKMs. The steel and wooden stock felt solid and heavy in his hands.
He worked the bolt. The action was smooth and crisp.
This was reliable, tough, and perfect for what was coming.
"We'll take three of these."
Luke made the call for everyone.
Brando still wasn't satisfied. His eyes landed on the big machine gun.
"What about that monster? Usable?"
The shop owner slapped his chest.
"Absolutely! This baby's my pride and joy—ca in the sa year First Blood hit theaters. Ammo's expensive and the recoil is a bitch, but if you can handle it…"
"I'll test it."
Luke lifted the M60 off the rack like it weighed nothing. Twenty-plus pounds felt like a toy in his grip.
He dropped into a classic Rambo stance, bracing the stock against his hip.
"Not bad. Like a mobile artillery piece."
Luke nodded, satisfied.
"We'll take it."
Brando waved a hand like money was no object.
"Five hundred rounds per rifle. Throw in a two-thousand-round belt for the machine gun. Grenades, flashbangs—anything else good?"
The shop owner's grin got even wider. He dragged a wooden crate from the bottom of the cabinet, pried it open, and revealed neatly stacked pineapple grenades and several blocks of C4 wrapped in oiled paper.
"Party favors. Plenty to go around."
"We'll take it all."
The shop owner rubbed his hands together, punched numbers into a calculator for a long mont, then nad a price that made even Lionel blink.
"Seventy-five thousand dollars. Cash."
"No problem. I'll give you a hundred."
Brando reached into his jacket and pulled out a wallet—but instead of cash, he produced a credit card with the FBI seal stamped on it.
"You take cards, right?"
The shop owner's smile froze on his face.
He stared at the card, sweat breaking out across his forehead again. In all his years running this place he'd seen cash, gold, even diamonds. But an FBI corporate card buying black-market military hardware? This was a first.
"You… you're joking, right?"
Brando handed the card over.
"I'm serious. We need to expense this. Oh, and we'll need a receipt. Detailed list. Change the nas—call them geological survey equipnt, acoustic detectors, whatever. Then multiply the prices by ten. Standard procedure. You understand."
The shop owner looked completely lost. He stared at Brando's perfectly calm face like his entire worldview had just been flipped.
In the end, greed won out over fear.
With shaking hands, he printed the most ridiculous invoice of his career.
They loaded crate after crate of weapons into the beat-up van while the shop owner stood in the doorway, wiping sweat from his forehead and muttering,
"Vietnam never even made it this far…"
On the road, Brando carefully filed the receipt into a folder, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
Luke started the engine and pulled onto the highway.
"Logistics taken care of. Now where are we headed?"
Brando studied the map.
"We took a little detour for the weapons. To reach the site we need to head east again."
By the ti they got back on the main road it was nearly eleven in the morning. Traffic had picked up.
At first Luke didn't think much of it, but soon the cars were packed so tight they ford a long, crawling line.
"Son of a bitch. Traffic? Out here?"
Luke smacked the steering wheel in frustration.
Lionel leaned forward from the back.
"I asked around while we were stopped. They said they opened a new amusent park in Louisiana to the east. All these people are heading there with their families."
Brando groaned and slumped in the passenger seat.
"At this rate we're never making it today. We'll be sleeping in the van again."
Luke shook his head, resigned.
Then he noticed the old station wagon in the next lane suddenly yank the wheel and drive straight off the shoulder into the open field beside the highway.
Brando sat bolt upright.
"Follow that car! If he's willing to cut across country like that, there's got to be a local shortcut nearby."
Luke thought about it for half a second. It made sense. Even if it wasn't a shortcut, it was better than sitting in traffic.
He cranked the wheel and followed the station wagon off the road.
The sun sank lower. The trees had long disappeared, replaced by endless yellow sand and rocky desert.
Luke frowned.
"Does this feel right? I don't think there's a single living soul out here."
Brando shook his head.
"This has to be it. Nuclear test sites are always dropped in the middle of nowhere. Can't risk hitting people."
Luke's doubts were answered a few minutes later when a faint sign of civilization appeared on the horizon.
A lonely gas station stood by itself in the middle of the wasteland—beat-up, but definitely real.
The station wagon they'd been following had already pulled up and was fueling.
Luke's own tank was running low, so he pulled in beside it.
As he got out, he saw a middle-aged white man in a Hawaiian shirt pumping gas into the station wagon.
Their eyes t. Both n gave each other a polite nod and a small smile.
Back in the van, Luke told Brando,
"You were right. That guy didn't look lost at all. There really is a road out here."
Brando grinned confidently.
"See? Follow the locals and you always find the hidden shortcuts."
Inside the station wagon, the middle-aged man climbed back behind the wheel, excited.
"See? Another car just followed us out here. I told you this was the right way. That local guy even smiled at —he must've been impressed I found this shortcut."
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