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    Crossfire
    Crossfire
    Crossfire
    Ebook113 pages1 hour

    Crossfire

    By Christopher Davis

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    About this ebook

    Crossfire is a fast action crime thriller that could take place in any central California town. Dave Bowen and Rick Hoffman are out to make a little side money trading guns when they get a little more than they bargained for in an abandoned warehouse one Saturday morning.
    A rouge government agent is behind the weapons deal and looking to keep his ass out of the fire while holding a south of the border drug cartel together.
    Nearly retired, local detective Vic Bishop has a hunch as to what took place in that warehouse and aims to get to the bottom of it all before the feds shut things down.
    Lead flies and blood spills in this short crime novella by Christopher Davis where none of those involved will win except the last man standing. Only one man will emerge from the Crossfire.

    Crossfire is central California noir at its finest from Christopher Davis and 10th Rule Books.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChristopher Davis
    Release dateOct 17, 2016
    ISBN9781370585533
    Crossfire
    Author

    Christopher Davis

    Christopher Davis is a central California native and grandfather of three rambunctious little ones. When not tending the herd, he's writing crime, western and horror fiction. His work has been published in both the US & England.

    Read more from Christopher Davis

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      Book preview

      Crossfire - Christopher Davis

      10th Rule Books Presents

      Crossfire

      By Christopher Davis

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright ©2016 Christopher Davis

      All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

      No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

      Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this story are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional. The author humbly begs your pardon. This is fiction, people.

      Cover design by James @ www.goonwrite.com

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Dedicated to the little ones, Silas, Karsyn and Jaxen

      Table of Contents

      Crossfire

      Two

      Three

      Four

      Five

      Six

      Seven

      Eight

      Nine

      Ten

      End

      Crossfire

      What the fuck, Ricky? Dave Bowen asked, ducking another shot from a small caliber pistol. His partner Rick Hoffman was fighting his way to the warehouse door and the safety of the outside world beyond.

      Don’t know, pal, Hoffman said, watching a stack of weather-faded wood crates for any sign of movement. Hoffman raised his Beretta and fired twice. The metallic sound of a weapon hitting the dirty concrete floor was comforting along with the dull thud of its owner rolling up after receiving the two rounds.

      Bowen—hunched down behind a stack of old pallets—dared a glance. Two of the opposing group made for the far side of the unused warehouse, one Hispanic, the other a large black fellow. Bowen sighted down the long barrel of his Colt, eased the trigger back and the Hispanic crumpled to the floor in mid stride. The heavyset fellow slowed and Bowen fired again, winging the black man who turned for a look at Bowen standing now with the 1911 aimed right at him.

      Wouldn’t think about it, dude, Bowen said, looking at the big man through the sight of the Colt.

      Hoffman, standing closer to the door yelled, Drop it now, motherfucker. Rusting door hinges creaked and bright light spilled in to the unlit space. Hoffman fired twice. The door slammed shut.

      Bowen squinted into the light. Steel flashed momentarily as the black man raised his weapon. Already looking down the barrel, Bowen eased the trigger back once more. The big black gentleman crumpled to the floor without a sound.

      Hoffman moved for a better position. Is that it? he asked, watching the rusting door from behind the same crates the three dead men had been standing behind just moments earlier.

      Bowen bent to retrieve the machine pistol lying next to the dead black man. Three rounds had been fired from the 1911 that he holstered under a hooded sweatshirt. Sleek and black, Bowen figured it Israeli made and 9 millimeter from the small magazine. Stealing a glance at the other dead man lying just twenty feet away, Bowen realized that he was packing the same weapon.

      Hey, Bowen yelled to Hoffman closer to the door and a straight shot across the roughly painted concrete floor. Hoffman glanced over from the warehouse door. Bowen slid the weapon across between wood crates and unused pallets followed by the three additional magazines the dead man carried in his pocket.

      Hoffman holstered the Beretta and had a look at the UZI in his hands. He smiled back at Bowen now running to the Hispanic man lying in a crimson pool of his own blood, Thanks, man.

      Reaching the second dead man or the first of his kill, Bowen grabbed up the other weapon searching the dead man’s pockets for a loaded magazine or two. This fellow carried three also.

      They must have been planning to shoot it out in here, huh? Bowen asked, in a low voice and to no one in particular.

      Hoffman agreed. Yeah, he said, keeping an eye on the door for the next charge, it’s starting to look that way.

      Neither Bowen nor Hoffman had long to wait for the door swung open to a hail of flying lead. Outside thick Tule fog fought back the sun casting everything in flat, gray light. It was an hour before lunch and the air carried the damp chill of winter.

      Saturday morning in a run-down industrial complex at the far end of town and no one to hear the gun fire erupting. Heavy wet fog and miles of concrete deadened the staccato blow.

      David Bowen and his boyhood pal Rick Hoffman had come to this part of town this morning looking to sell a few guns, maybe buy a few more? Hoffman had scored a few crates of Russian Kalashnikov rifles along with a ton of surplus, 7.62, ammunition to feed their hungry mouths.

      Where in the fuck did you find these guys, Ricky? Bowen asked, between the bursts of small caliber fire entering the unused warehouse through the open door.

      Hoffman stood to return fire with one of the opposing gunmen in his line of sight, Internet chatroom.

      That gunman just outside the door went down in a hurry once Hoffman opened the Israeli pistol up.

      He’s down, Bowen yelled, as he had a better view out front from his location farther into the warehouse.

      Hoffman dropped the spent magazine and slapped another home, How many more? he asked. Can you see any others?

      Bowen moved closer to the door for a better look, keeping behind a long row of the old pallets that littered the place. There was movement behind the open door. This he could see in the crack between the rusting door and the cinderblock of the building. Bowen raised the foreign pistol and eased back the trigger once the target made the mistake of taking a closer look. The gunman outside went down and the pistol made an audible clicking sound as the magazine emptied.

      The remaining gunman outside heard the hammer come down on nothing but air and stepped forward to claim the prize. Dropping the UZI, Bowen went for the holstered 1911. It was too late, Hoffman fired into the doorway taking out the last of the unfriendly hosts.

      Bowen looked over to his friend as he bent to retrieve the dropped weapon. It had been that close. Thanks, dude, he said sliding the spent magazine in his back pocket and ramming one of the spares home.

      There had been six men altogether that had shone up to trade guns this morning. Three now lay dead inside

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