The Tyrant Billionaire

Chapter 9: Chapter 9 Buying Guns

They found a small, dimly lit diner and ordered burgers with steaming cups of coffee. As Sean took a bite of his food, he said, "We can take a breather now. Usually around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, bars and nightclubs start to open. That's when we do our rounds, make sure everything's running smoothly."

In simpler terms, it was all about assessing the situation.

"If some drunk gets rowdy, just toss him out. That's usually straightforward. Our main concern is if some rival gang tries to stir up trouble, but that doesn't happen often. Most gangs stick to their own turf."

He paused to take a sip of coffee, then continued, "In the evenings, we check in with the bar owners about their liquor sales and take orders for the next day. We're usually done by one or two in the morning."

Hardy couldn't help but think that this line of work was far from easy money.

But in these times, who had it easy?

"What about collecting debts?" Hardy asked, curious.

"We've got one standing job—getting our cut from the Spaniards for the coke we supply. Cook used to handle that, but now that you've taken care of him, we'll have to see who steps in next." Sean looked at Hardy as he said this.

"There's also extra work, like collecting debts for casinos and loan sharks. Those are side gigs if you want to earn a bit more. But I'd suggest you get a feel for the main job before diving into that."

Hardy nodded, understanding that debt collection was just a way to pad the income.

Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind. He took a bite of his burger and asked Sean, "Is there a way to get my hands on some guns? I need a few more."

In this line of work, danger was always around the corner. Being unarmed was not an option.

He had disposed of Bill's gun after the incident at the river, so now he needed to stock up.

"Buying guns? No problem. I'll take you to see Old Mike after we finish up here," Sean replied.

After they finished eating, the three of them drove out to the edge of town to a gun shop that seemed a bit off the beaten path. The place was bigger than Hardy expected. As they got out of the car, Sean said, "Old Mike is one of us. He runs this shop and also deals in black-market firearms. Most of the guys get their stuff from him."

They entered the shop, and Sean called out to a grizzled old man lounging in a recliner, "Old Mike, we've got some business for you."

The man, with his silver hair and full beard, opened his eyes, got up, and approached them. He glanced at Sean before turning his attention to Hardy. "Who's this?"

"Jon Hardy," Sean introduced. "He's Bill's brother. Bill's laid up right now, so Jon's handling things for him."

Old Mike eyed Hardy up and down. "You ever serve?"

"Yeah, Marine Corps," Hardy replied.

The old man nodded in approval. "I can tell you've seen some action. I served in the Austro-Hungarian army during the Great War. Ended up here after the empire fell."

"Old Mike, Jon's looking for some quality firepower," Sean cut in.

Old Mike nodded again, gesturing for them to follow. As they walked, Sean leaned in and whispered to Hardy, "He'll chew your ear off about the war if you let him."

Hardy smirked.

They followed Old Mike to a heavy iron door. He unlocked it, revealing a warehouse packed with shelves of weapons.

Guns were laid out neatly, gleaming under the dim light. For Hardy, it was like stepping into a candy store.

Old Mike led the way, giving a rundown as he went. "Most of these are surplus or used. You've got the M1 Garand, M1 Carbine, Mauser 98, and the British Enfield."

He picked up a rifle and handed it to Hardy. "This here's the M1941 Johnson semi-automatic, used by the Marines. You should know this one."

Hardy's military instincts kicked in as he took the rifle. It felt like an extension of his own body.

"Feels solid," Hardy remarked, pulling back the bolt and testing the trigger.

Old Mike grinned. "I don't just sell guns. I take care of them too. Every piece here is handpicked and maintained by yours truly."

"I'll take it," Hardy said without hesitation.

Old Mike smiled. "That'll be $105, and I'll throw in 100 rounds."

It wasn't cheap—half a month's pay for most—but Hardy knew quality when he saw it.

Sean, ever the negotiator, chimed in, "Come on, Mike. These are used guns, and the production cost is a fraction of what you're charging."

Old Mike shot back, "You want fresh eggs from a hen, you don't get them for free. The price stands."

Hardy chuckled. "Make it $100, and give me 200 rounds."

"Deal," Old Mike said, sealing the transaction with a nod.

They moved on to the submachine guns. "How about a Thompson? The Chicago Typewriter? Or maybe a German MP40, STG 44?"

Hardy didn't need to think twice. "Give me the Thompson," he said, knowing it was the quintessential gangster's weapon.

He also picked out two M1911 pistols, remembering how he'd ditched the ones he used to kill Cook. For good measure, he grabbed a Colt revolver and a Winchester M1887 shotgun—Cook's weapon of choice, now his.

Old Mike offered everything from machine guns to grenades, but Hardy declined. "We'll get those if we need them," he said.

Mike promised him a good price on anything he might need in the future.

The total came to $460, a hefty chunk of the cash Hardy had just earned, but he felt it was money well spent.

Out back, there was a shooting range. Hardy tested his new weapons, hitting the 50-meter targets with precision, the metallic clang echoing with each shot.

Sean and Reid tried their hand but couldn't match Hardy's accuracy.

"Jon, your aim is dead on," Sean said, clearly impressed.

"Practice," Hardy replied. "Thousands of rounds, and anyone can be a sharpshooter."

Old Mike, who had been watching, nodded in agreement. "He's right. If you want to shoot well, you've got to practice."

Old Mike took a turn, firing rapidly and hitting the targets with ease, before walking away without a word.

As they watched him go, Hardy felt a deep respect for the old man's skills.

After spending some time at the range, they left Old Mike's shop and visited a few bars before ending up at Bunny Nightclub.

By then, dusk had settled in, and the club was beginning to fill up. Hardy, Sean, and Reid walked in past the bouncer, who greeted them with a nod.

"Let's find a spot to sit. It's usually pretty quiet," Sean said.

As they moved through the crowd, a striking blonde woman in a red dress caught Sean's eye. She greeted him warmly, then turned her attention to Hardy.

She looked him up and down with a playful smile.

"Who's the handsome guy, Sean?"

"This is Jon Hardy, my new boss. He's running things around here now," Sean explained.

The woman stepped closer, her heels clicking on the floor, and stopped right in front of Hardy. She was almost as tall as he was, and she gazed at him with deep, brown eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Hardy," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Marissa."

"Likewise," Hardy replied, shaking her hand with a smile.

"If you've got time, we should have a drink," she suggested.

"Sure thing."

With a flirtatious smile, Marissa turned and walked away, her hips swaying with each step.

Reid watched her go, clearly captivated. "She's never been that friendly to any of us—not even Bill. But she seems to like you."

Sean chuckled. "Jon, Marissa's the star here. She's got charm, and she brings in a lot of business. The boss pays her well for it."

Hardy thought to himself that Marissa was more than just a pretty face; she was a master at her craft.

"Plenty of guys chase after her," Sean continued, "but not many get anywhere. From the way she looked at you, though, you might have a shot if you play your cards right."