By Gonz Blinko
Samhara worked with BC’s wife to round up quite a posse from former Freeman Scientology employees and a few Viet Nam Vets that BC hangs with. We got a rather impressive collection of hardware, most with help from the locals. I grabbed a Glock 9 with a banana clip, a Mossberg with short barrel, a Ruger .22 with silencer and enough ammo to avoid running out for quite some time.
BC’s wife, a very resourceful woman, I must say, found us two Huey and one Segorski helicopters all rigged with 50 mm machine guns which increased my confidence quite a bit. Mickey Calvo brought excellent body armor over from Orlando, I don’t think it would help if hit by one of those 50 mm rounds but the claim to hold up to a 545 from an AK.
The phone rang in my suite; I thought it meant we could start some of the recon effort. “Gonz,” I answered.
“It’s Sam. We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Hurricane Alfredo, the first of the year and it’s heading straight for us.”
“What does that mean for the mission?”
“It means that we hang out with the posse until the bitch blows out of town.”
I’m not the most sociable sort but this seemed like a decent group of folks and they all seemed way into weapons so we’d have something to talk about. After a couple of hours, surrounded by a heavily armed bunch of BC’s buddies, though, I thought I would lose my mind.
I excused myself and hopped in a cab. I told the driver to bring me to the nearest Starbucks and he said they had closed for the storm. I went back into the hotel and headed for the elevator. One of BC’s friends who calls himself El Negro saw me and jumped into the elevator as I headed up to my suite. We’ve been sitting here, guzzling coffee and, with silencers on, shooting at pigeons off of the deck.
I don’t know how long this storm will last. We don’t know if they’ll move BC. Hell, we don’t even know who’s holding him.
To be continued…