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Shots Rang Out And They All Fell Dead

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The Don leans back in his blood-red armchair, casting a wary eye over the money laid in front of him. “Five million, ya say?” he asks.
The Japanese gentleman bows curtly. “Yes.” The Don points at the dozen or so sacks by his feet, each of them bulging. “That’s five thousand M4A1 automatic rifles.”
The gentleman smiles. “I am pleased to do business with you.”
“Ya want a firing range to test our yer new guns?”
“That…” the gentleman considers. “Will not be necessary.”
“What you want so many for? You takin’ on some sort of big-ass international”-the Don pronounces it as in-ter-na-sher-narl-“syndicate?”
The Japanese crime lord shifts slightly in his seat. “There’s a war about to erupt on the streets of Tokyo any time soon. Some Yakuza faction robbed another of an entire cargo ship full of drugs. There’s going to be a shower of blood, and I’m going to be right there selling weapons to anyone who wants them.”
As the Don reaches out a tanned hand to scoop the money into a nondescript leather bag, the cold touch of a gun taps his forehead. “However,” continues the Japanese gentleman, smiling even more than ever. “I do not intend to pay for them.”
The Don looks right into those snake eyes, stares at those unnaturally white teeth.
“You think we don’t prepare for such thing?”
The gentleman looks confused.
“Here’s a tip:in your next life, when you rip off an arms dealer, bring an army with you instead of just one bodyguard.”
A whisper sounds in his ear, and the gun bounces out of his hand. He tries to grab it, but a second shot sends it skittering across the room. The Don presses a knife to his cheek. The door swings open, his dead bodyguard still slumped against it. A bright red smile shimmers at the unfortunate corpse’s throat.
The Japanese gentleman makes a discreet signal, and a secret panel slides sideways, revealing twenty four heavily armed men. “I did bring an army.”
The Don laughs. “Not a big enough army.”
Then shots rang out and they all fell dead, the Japanese gentleman and his assassins, every last man of them, all lying on the old wooden floor.
Silent white specters move in from the corridor behind the open door, and with surgical gloves and surgical masks and tinted goggles, they noiselessly clean up the bodies.