Echo of the Reich by James Becker Read Free Book Online Page A

hypocrisy of most politicians. Ever since Tony Blair had famously “banned handguns,” the only people who owned weapons in Britain were criminals, and the Labor Party had somehow managed to spin this obvious lunacy into a piece of good news for the public.
    “Okay, you want a pistol, right? And some ammo, obviously. I’ve brought three along, but it all depends onwhat you want to spend and if you think you’re going to bring it back to me.”
    “I’ll try, but I don’t know how this is going to pan out.”
    “Then you probably won’t want this one,” Weeks replied.
    He reached over to the backseat of the car, where a couple of coats had been draped, apparently casually, and pulled out a wooden box secured with metal catches. Weeks snapped them open and lifted the lid. Inside, set in a shaped recess, was a small black semi-automatic pistol. He lifted out the weapon, showed Bronson that there was no magazine fitted, then pulled back the slide and handed it to his companion—basic safety precautions to ensure that the weapon was unloaded.
    “Smart. A subcompact Glock,” Bronson said, recognizing it immediately. He turned it over in his hands. The butt was very short, allowing the weapon to be held by two fingers, the third finger nestling in a recess at the front of the magazine when it was in place. “A nice piece of kit, but I don’t know if I can afford this. Which model is it, and what’s it chambered for?”
    “It’s a Model Twenty-six, so nine millimeter, with a ten-round magazine. I’ve got a Model Twenty-seven as well, to take the forty-caliber Smith and Wesson round, but that’s a bit more expensive, and really that cartridge is a bit of a handful in a pistol this small. I’ve got a standard magazine, as well as one of the factory plus-two models that gives you twelve rounds altogether, and a spare mag from a Glock Seventeen that’ll fit. That holds the usual seventeen rounds, but it sticks out a hell of along way. If you wanted that, you’d probably be better off with just the Model Seventeen right from the start.”
    Bronson nodded, looking down at the compact pistol. “It’s ideal, Dickie, but these are expensive little buggers. How much are you asking?”
    “That weapon’s virtually new, and they are pricey. But for you, as a deal, you can have it for six hundred, plus twenty for a box of Parabellum. And I’ll give you four hundred if you bring it back when you’re done.”
    Bronson shook his head and reluctantly handed back the weapon. “Too rich for me,” he said. “I was hoping you’d got something for less than half that.”
    Weeks nodded. “I have,” he said, “but you won’t like it as much.”
    He replaced the Glock in the box, closed the catches and returned it to the backseat, then rummaged around under the coats and took out another box, bigger and more battered, showing signs of its age.
    He opened this box, took out the pistol and did the usual safety checks, then handed it to Bronson.
    “It’s another Glock,” Weeks said. “This one’s a Model Seventeen, with two standard magazines. It’s been around for a while, but it works well. Dead reliable, these pistols.”
    Bronson nodded as he inspected the weapon. It was a bit battered and there were several smears of what looked like paint on the polymer grip, but all the damage was cosmetic and the firing mechanism itself seemed in good working order as far as he could tell. There was really only one problem with it, apart from possibly the price.
    “I’m not bothered about the way it looks, Dickie, butthis is a full-frame pistol, and I don’t know if I could keep a weapon this size hidden in my pocket or wherever. I really need something a bit smaller.”
    Weeks smiled at him as Bronson handed back the Glock 17. “Well,” he said, “if the Twenty-six is too rich for your tastes, I’ve only got one other option.”
    “And this is the one I’m not going to like,” Bronson suggested.
    “Exactly. This is