Page 33 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

SERRANO LED THE WAY down a musty stone stairwell.

Tom felt the temperature drop.

“The previous occupants used to store their wine down here,” Serrano explained.

At the base of the stairs was a hallway, damp and dark, dimly illuminated by three bulbs hanging on wires spaced out above them.

Serrano walked down the narrow hall. It was constructed with the same stones as the stairway.

He stopped at a door affixed with a Kaba Ilco Unican 1800 mechanical cipher lock and punched in a code.

He turned the handle, stepped inside, and flipped a switch illuminating two rows of overhead lighting.

“Ask and you shall receive,” he said.

The spacious wine cellar had been converted into an armory.

German MP-40s, Swedish Ks, Beretta M12s, suppressed Israeli Uzis, Walther MPLs, and Thompson submachine guns lined the walls next to M1 Garands, scoped M14s, and even a Harrington & Richardson T223.

Assorted filing cabinets and drawer systems occupied the lower half of the walls.

Red numbers stenciled onto the drawers seemed to correspond with tags hanging with the weapons.

Tom opened a drawer with a number matching a tag on the Beretta M12. Inside were twenty, thirty-two, and forty-round 9mm magazines for the compact Italian sub gun.

“I think we’ve found our home,” Tom said.

“Stay as long as you’d like.”

A sturdy table dominated the center of the room.

“Table was for tastings,” Serrano explained. “They must have built the cellar around it.”

Tom examined a rack of wines occupying one short section of wall.

“Comes in handy,” Serrano said. “Good gifts in these diplomatic circles for potential assets.”

“They look expensive,” Tom observed.

“Probably more so than the weapons, though I prefer the Italian vintages. Unfortunately, the French colonized Indochina instead of the Italians.”

“What’s this?” Tom asked, reaching for a unique Browning Hi-Power on the wall.

“A Mini-Browning,” Serrano said. “Built by a gunsmith named Austin Behlert. We commissioned him to do some work for us. It’s a modified Hi-Power with about an inch off the front, five-eighths off the grip. Beveled mag well to aid in reloads. It still holds ten rounds in the magazine.”

“Not bad,” Tom said as he confirmed the pistol was unloaded.

He rotated the modified Browning in his hands, noting the extended safety lever and Smith & Wesson K sights with red front insert.

Testing the action and slide to frame fitment, he saw that someone had put a lot of effort into both, taking Tom’s pistol of choice to the next level.

“Magazine disconnect?” he asked.

“Removed.”

“Hallelujah.”

“Nineteen elevens?” Quinn asked.

“Right over there,” Serrano said, pointing to a drawer.

Quinn slid the drawer open to find five 1911 pistols.

The Special Forces sergeant smiled, recognizing the craftsmanship of custom 1911 gunsmith Armand Swenson on one of them. He pulled it from the lineup, inspecting the slide and frame in the yellow artificial light.

“A steel Commander-size 1911. I’ve never seen one like this before. I like the weight.”

“Swenson built a few Bobcats like this for the Agency,” Serrano said. “It’s what I carry.”

“Smart man.”

Quinn tested the trigger and whistled.

“Holsters, ammo, belts are in those drawers over there,” Serrano said.

Tom rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an Andy Anderson Sidewinder leather holster. He looked at it, puzzled.

“It goes inside the waistband,” Serrano said.

“Ah, clever,” Tom said.

He removed dual leather magazine holders from the drawer and set about arranging them on his belt.

Quinn found a brown leather 1911 holster and mag holders made by Arvo Ojala in North Hollywood.

“We have a few companies out of California making us concealable rigs,” Serrano said, clearly proud of the offerings.

“The Golden State is where it’s all happening these days,” Quinn said. “Fifth Group sent my team out there to train with Jeff Cooper, Ray Chapman, Thell Reed, Jack Weaver, and Elden Carl a few years back.”

“Agency has had some of those guys out to the Farm. They are fast.”

“They wiped the floor with us, but we learned a lot. Colonel Cooper converted me to the 1911.”

“I’ll take the additional rounds in the Hi-Power,” Tom said.

“If you hit what you aim at, you don’t need all those rounds,” Quinn joked, as he arranged the new rig on his belt. “And that’s why we carry extra magazines.”

“Say what you will, but look at this,” Tom said, holding the Hi-Power up to the light. “Now, that’s a good-looking pistol. Check out those elegant lines.”

“Did you just use ‘elegant’ to describe a handgun? Now I see why you don’t have a girlfriend. Fucking SEALs.”

Tom laughed. He loaded his three magazines, put two in his new pouches, and inserted the last one into the Hi-Power. He racked the slide, flipped up the manual safety, and inserted it into his holster, pulling his T-shirt over the top.

Quinn did the same with the .45.

“Blades?” Quinn asked.

“That drawer there,” Serrano said, pointing to his far right.

Quinn opened the drawer and pulled out a butterfly knife with a red handle.

“Interesting,” he said as he flipped open the blade.

“A Hackman Puukko. Made for us out of Sorsakoski, Finland. They call it a latch-knife. I carry one myself.”

Quinn refolded the blade and slid it into his pocket.

“Tom, you want one?”

“Can’t have too many knives.”

“Red or black handle.”

“Black.”

Quinn threw Tom the Finnish blade. He tested it and put it in his pocket.

“Anything bigger?” Quinn asked. “My tomahawk was in my bag that is no longer with us.”

“Next drawer down. The former SF guys we have on staff ordered them from Peter LaGana.”

A smile crept across Quinn’s face as he opened the drawer.

“Exactly what I needed. This VTAC will do nicely,” he said, examining the LaGana Tactical Tomahawk. “Tom?”

“Where am I supposed to carry that thing in civies? I think I’m good.”

“Your loss,” Quinn said.

“Frank feels naked without one,” Tom explained. “He’ll be much more pleasant to be around now.”

“Where can we sign for these?” Quinn asked.

“Compliments of the house,” the Agency man said, holding the door open for his guests.

“In that case, I might liberate a bottle of wine too,” Tom said. He pulled a bottle from the rack and blew off the dust.

“Help yourself.”

“Nineteen hundred Chateau Margaux,” Tom said. “This any good?”

“Take it. We’ve got plenty.”

“Thank you.”

“We aim to please,” Serrano said, leading the way back down the hall and up the stairs.

“I’ll have a driver take you to one of our safe houses. I’d drive you myself, but I have an engagement I can’t cancel.”

At the top of the stairs, Serrano paused and pulled a royal blue Wearever fountain pen and a card from his pocket.

“This is my office number,” he said, as he wrote on the card. “And this is my home number. It’s just outside the city. Call anytime.”

He handed Quinn the card and then did the same on a second one for Tom.

As they headed for the front door, a young man in a gray suit appeared and whispered something to Serrano, who nodded in response.

“Gentlemen, I have a meeting. Get some rest. I’ll make sure SOG HQ has your contact at the apartment and that they get in touch with you regarding arrangements for Amiuh.”

“Thank you,” Quinn said.

As they shook hands, the front door opened, and a distinguished-looking man who appeared to be of French and Vietnamese ancestry entered.

He was impeccably dressed in a slate blue tropical wool lightweight suit with a sleek, hardly discernible micro-check pattern.

A burgundy grenadine tie of woven silk stood out against his white dress shirt secured under a French semi-spread collar.

The tie was offset by a beige linen pocket square that sprouted from his left breast pocket below a narrow lapel.

His brown leather belt matched his tassel loafers worn without socks.

His left hand rested on the handle of a wooden walking cane, the derby-style handle carved into a majestic dragon.

He was followed by a young woman in her early twenties. The sunlight from the open door briefly illuminated her long straight dark hair before shutting behind her.

The visitors recognized Serrano immediately.

“Ah, my next meeting.”

Serrano stepped forward and extended his hand to the man.

“Monsieur DuBois, bonjour,” he said in flawless French.

“Bonjour.” He was short and thin with thick gray hair. Wrinkles dominated his forehead and crept around eyes that failed to hide a permanent sadness.

“Ah, Mademoiselle DuBois, comment ca vá?” Serrano said, lightly kissing her on both cheeks in greeting.

“?a vá,” the woman responded.

She removed oversized square tortoiseshell sunglasses to reveal mysterious almond-shaped eyes.

She placed the glasses in a small pouch-style straw handbag, snapped its closure, and turned to the two MACV-SOG operators.

She was possessed of a small nose, full lips, and defined cheekbones, while her porcelain skin was radiant and striking.

She wore a form-fitting black silk button-down shirt with a high collar that was tucked into loosely woven white linen pants.

A tan canvas oversize belt and black Mary Jane shoes completed the ensemble.

A single green aventurine rounded amulet necklace rested against her chest just above the last fastened button of her shirt.

It was tied to a simple black string that descended from a graceful neckline.

She projected an understated and effortless beauty.

“Monsieur DuBois, Mademoiselle DuBois, may I present two American colleagues, Frank Jones and Tom Smith.”

The impromptu last name changes caught Tom by surprise. Lying seemed to come naturally to Serrano. Perhaps it was a prerequisite for this type of work.

“Frank, Tom, this is Gaston DuBois, proprietor of DuBois Consortium, and his daughter Ella.”

“Nice to meet you,” Quinn said, shaking both their hands.

“Pleasure,” said Tom, doing the same.

“Enchanté,” Ella said, her voice demure yet firm.

Tom’s eyes caught Ella’s and lingered a moment too long. He had to force himself to look away.

“Monsieur DuBois runs an import and export business here in Saigon,” Serrano explained.

The man smiled to reveal the yellowing teeth that came with time on Earth.

“For now,” he said. “But Ella will be taking over one day so I can enjoy retirement.” His English was heavily accented French. It was evident that he was proud of his daughter.

“Frank, Tom, remember, call if you need anything,” Serrano said.

“Au revoir,” Tom said, once more catching Ella’s eye.

“Au revoir,” she responded, turning to follow her father and Serrano into the CIA annex.

A baby blue Citroen DS 19 with a white roof passed a horse-drawn carriage as Tom and Quinn made their way down the steps to the street where a black Agency Simca 1501 four-door sedan waited.

Tom looked back at the French colonial.

“Come on, Romeo,” Quinn said.

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? If you stood there any longer you would have spontaneously combusted.”

“Give me a break.”

“She might have as well. And by the way, you save the word ‘elegant’ for a woman like that, not the pistol on your belt.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome. Just remember what I told you about women and SOG.”

“You won’t have to worry. I’ll probably never see her again,” Tom said.

“You’ve got Serrano’s card. Ask him to set you up.”

Quinn walked around to the opposite side of the car and climbed into the back seat.

Before Tom opened the rear passenger door, he looked down at the card in his hand.

In the upper right were the initials “NS” for Nick Serrano, under which was a number with a “w” for “work” in front of it and a second number labeled with an “h” for “home.” He flipped the card over between his fingers.

There was something else inscribed on the back.

We deal in lead, friend.