My Business Ch. 02

The message was clear, even when it was cautiously relayed.

The Turks had come at Terry and probably also Danny, an act of war.

That meant they came at them with guns, and tried to kill the head of the Scottish connection down here in London.

Now I was already aware that the only time I would ever carry a gun was if we were at war, or in direct danger of attack.

I had to go see the man with the AK47, who was holding guns safely for the firm.

I laid with Aisha who was sleeping away, and pondered what this meant for me.

I would be carrying a gun, the first time in a few months since I last did in Glasgow.

The Next Morning, 10:34am, Outskirts of London, Suburbs

I told Aisha the next morning of the call with Terry, and she said she'd go out shopping for a few hours so I could go and visit Terry's contact with the guns.

I took a local bus to the outskirts of London, near Uxbridge to meet the same man I had last seen with Terry who had our guns.

He lived in a two-storey Victorian style house in the suburbs, supposedly a gunsmith and was able to procure weapons for the firm.

I was in my jeans, and hooded-jumper with my lock-knife safely in my pocket.

I pressed his front door bell.

It rang out, and I waited.

A few moments later the man answered the door.

Clearly in his sixties, with greying hair and a bookish appearance with black-rimmed reading glasses.

In a light blue shirt, and smart trousers he didn't seem like an underworld gunsmith or criminal.

The moment he saw me, nothing was said and he nodded to me to follow him inside his home.

I followed inside, closing the door behind me and followed him a man named David into a back room where his gun room, and workshop was.

When I say workshop, it had everything needed to repair, and maintain firearms.

He periodically for the local low-level gangs, and street crews took BB or pellet guns, the types used as toys but turned them into replica firearms capable of firing live rounds.

So let's say a BB air gun you buy for £20 at a local shady shop, can be turned for a fee of say another £50 into a lethal firearm it's not a bad deal really.

But the problem is being made of plastic, and poor metal there was always a likelihood of the guns blowing up in the poor fuck's hands who was using it.

To buy a good, proper handgun on the street that has already been used in crime would set a young hoodlum back about £200.

But to buy a clean gun, never used in a crime or used in another part of the country it could cost upwards of £400.

David knew his guns, work tables had bullets, and the tools to maintain guns laid out on them as if he was a simple craftsman.

But his craftsmanship was guns, and he was good at it.

Supposedly David had been supplying London's criminal underworld, and its elite for over forty years after leaving the British Army.

In the old day's he supplied the likes of the Arifs Crime family back in their own heyday of the 1990's, as well as the notorious Clerkenwell crime syndicate based out of North-London. And he even which surprised me had on a few occasions loaned out, or sold guns to the legendary London gangsters The Richardsons, and 'Mad' Frankie Frasier himself, a notorious London gangland legend in the 1960's.

In his criminal career, he had supplied some of the earliest criminals with guns or explosives for safe-cracking, up to now supplying local drug gangs and crews with deadly handguns, and machine-guns even.

In his back room he spoke, in a strong-Cockney accent from his days of once living in the city itself.

"Right son, I have the shooter Terry told me to hold for you."

He told me, leaning down into a box and pulling out a small revolver.

"32. Snub nose handgun. Small, and easily to conceal. It's as deadly as the mope using it, if used properly. Have you handled a shooter before son?"

I looked up at him as he handed me the gun.

"Once, a nine millimetre handgun. I didn't really aim the bastard tho', just fired at the wanker."

David sighed.

"Did you hit him?"

"Aye."

I said.

"Good, that's a fucking start at least. Aim with this one, its single shot and you've only got six bullets at any one time. Aim for centre mass, or the fucking head if you have to. I'm going to give you another thirty rounds for it. But my advice, don't use it unless you have to. Once you shoot someone dead, you better hope there are no witnesses or you'll go inside for long while."

I nodded, the rules of the street hadn't changed since I left Glasgow.

We said our goodbyes as he shoved a bag of more bullets into my hand, I hid the gun in the waistband of my jeans and shoved the bullets in my jeans pocket.

I just hoped I didn't have to use it today.