Page 118 of Monk

“I like that,” he said. “No bullshit. Straight to the point.”

He gestured toward the warehouse.

“Come on. Let’s talk business.”

Inside, the warehouse was exactly what I expected, and more. The space was massive, the kind of industrial building that had seen decades of legitimate business before being repurposed for deals like this. Concrete floors stretched out in every direction,scuffed and stained from years of heavy machinery and forklifts. Metal shelving units lined the walls, stacked with crates and pallets wrapped in plastic. The ceiling was high—maybe thirty feet—with exposed steel beams and flickering fluorescent lights that cast harsh shadows across the floor. The air smelled like dust, and something metallic I couldn’t quite place.

Every footstep echoed. Every breath felt amplified.

It was the kind of place where sound carried, where you could hear someone approaching from fifty yards away. Perfect for a weapons deal. Or an ambush.

I scanned the room as we walked deeper inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, and that was when I noticed them. Men. Benedict’s men. They weren’t obvious about it—no one was pointing guns or standing at attention—but they were there. One leaning against a support beam near the loading dock, arms crossed, eyes tracking our movement. Another on a catwalk above us, pretending to check inventory but positioned with a clear line of sight to the center of the room. A third near the back exit, smoking a cigarette, his hand resting casually near his waistband.

Not threatening. But present. Strategically placed.

I felt the tension coil in my shoulders.

This wasn’t a setup; at least, I didn’t think it was, but Benedict had come prepared. He had brought enough men to handle things if this deal went south.

Smart. I would have done the same.

I glanced at Whisper. He noticed too. His jaw was tight, his eyes flicking briefly to the man on the catwalk before returning to Benedict. Blackjack was behind me, his footsteps steady, but I could feel his awareness—the way his body had shifted slightly, ready to move if needed.

We were outnumbered but we weren’t outmatched. Benedict led us to the center of the warehouse, where a long metal table had been set up.

And there it was. The inventory.

AR-15s laid out in neat rows, their black metal gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Glocks stacked beside them, magazines lined up with military precision. Shotguns—Remington 870s, Mossberg 500s—propped against the table’s edge. And crates of ammunition stacked behind it all, enough to supply a small army.

My pulse quickened. This was exactly what we needed.

Benedict walked over to the table, his hands resting on his hips, his expression calm and confident. “This is what we’ve got,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. “Everything you asked for. Fifteen grand worth of top-of-the-line destruction, like we discussed.”

I stepped forward, my boots echoing on the concrete. I didn’t rush. Didn’t let the urgency I felt show on my face. Instead, I moved slowly, deliberately, picking up the first AR-15.

The weight was perfect—solid but not too heavy. I turned it over in my hands, inspecting every inch. The barrel was clean, no scratches or dents. The stock was intact, no cracks or weak points. I checked where the serial number should have been.

Filed off. Smooth. Professional.

I set it down and picked up another.

Same quality.

Same attention to detail.

I moved to the Glocks next, picking up a 9mm and checking the slide, the trigger, the magazine well. Everything functioned smoothly. No sticking. No resistance. I ejected the magazine, checked the spring tension, then slid it back in with a satisfying click.

Clean.

Untraceable.

Exactly what we needed.

I glanced at Whisper again. He was watching me, his expression unreadable, but I saw the slight nod. Blackjack stepped closer, picking up one of the shotguns and inspecting it with the same careful attention. He pumped the action once. The sound was sharp and metallic in the quiet warehouse. Then he nodded at me.

I set the Glock back down on the table and turned to Benedict. He was watching me with that same calm confidence, his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t worried. Wasn’t nervous. He knew his product was solid. And he knew he had the upper hand here. His men positioned, his territory, his rules. But he also knew we weren’t amateurs.

We had come prepared, too. And if this went sideways, it would cost both sides more than either of us wanted to pay. “You do good work,” I said, my voice steady.