Badge of the Death Game

Chapter 037

The clatter of metal on wood filled the room as Evan worked his way down the table, sorting through two neat rows of handguns and long arms, their barrels catching the early light with a cold, quiet gleam. Several boxes of ammunition sat stacked on the chair beside him, brass casings glinting gold through the cardboard openings. He moved methodically, grouping each weapon with its corresponding magazines and rounds before zipping them into black duffel bags.

"Evan," Howard said, checking his phone, "you don't need to be that precise about it. It's past seven — we should get moving."

Evan grinned without looking up. "The rounds still need to be packed properly."

Howard gave a small nod, then crossed the room to the master bedroom door and knocked twice. "Soren, we're about ready."

"Copy that."

In the en suite bathroom, Soren stood in front of the mirror working a razor carefully along his jaw, clearing away several days' worth of stubble. He couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered. When he was done, he studied the face looking back at him — the same face he'd worn in his previous life, though somehow a few years younger, a little sharper. He ran a hand along his chin and allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction.

He moved to the nightstand, picked up the Glock 17 that hadn't left his side in two days, dropped the magazine to check the chamber, then seated it again and headed out.

The living room was packed and ready. The duffel bags were lined up near the door. Howard had changed into a black-and-white athletic set that made him look like a middle-aged man gearing up for his first charity 5K.

Evan spotted Soren first and did a double take. "I always figured you were at least in your early thirties," he said, grinning. "Clean-shaven, you look about my age."

Howard chuckled. "Shaving does take years off. Get a haircut next and you'd look like a completely different person." He paused, then absently reached up and touched the thinning patch at the top of his own head.

"Both of you, knock it off." Soren shook his head, though the corner of his mouth pulled up. "Call Cody, tell him to get ready. We'll swing by the hospital to pick him up."

Howard had barely lifted his phone when someone knocked at the door.

Evan checked through the peephole, then opened it.

Cody stepped inside carrying a bulging plastic bag in each hand, loaves of bread and cartons of milk packed tight. He gave Soren a nod. "Morning." Then he turned and greeted Evan and Howard in turn, unhurried and polite.

"Perfect timing," Evan said, giving him a light punch on the shoulder. "We were just about to come get you."

Soren nodded. "Everything sorted on your end?"

"Yes." Cody's voice carried a quiet gratitude. "I used part of the money to hire a caregiver and cover some of the hospital fees. There's still some left, and I was thinking —"

"Don't worry about it." Soren cut him off before he could continue. "You don't need to account for every dollar. As long as things are handled, that's enough. Today we're heading to the training site — Howard should've told you last night."

"He did," Cody said. "That's why I brought breakfast."

"Good. Grab your piece, we'll eat on the way. Howard, you're driving. Evan, message Mark and confirm the location one more time."

"On it."

________________________________________

Mark had gone out to the site the night before, in his words, to catch up with the owner and smooth things over — get a better feel for the layout, make sure everything would be ready to use the moment they arrived. He'd left his own car behind for them.

As Howard navigated through the thinning morning traffic toward the outskirts of Grayhaven City, he relayed what Mark had told him. The site was an abandoned factory on the edge of the city. It had a shooting range and a kill house, and the owner was a retired law enforcement trainer who had spent years running tactical courses for local police. Half the officers in the district had trained under him at some point.

"A police trainer?" Evan said from the passenger seat, frowning slightly. "We're just going to walk in there? You sure Mark isn't setting us up?"

"It's fine," Howard said. "That was years ago. The man's retired. And when we're using the facility, there won't be anyone else around."

In the back seat, Soren had been quietly going through the equipment bags a second time. He looked up at the ammunition boxes, ran a quick mental calculation, and leaned forward. "Howard, make a stop at the g*n shop on the way. Three hundred rounds per weapon — what we've got won't last two days of serious drilling."

"Sure thing."

They pulled up outside Kelly's shop a few minutes later. Kelly was already open, which didn't surprise anyone — she ran a tight operation. What did catch Soren's attention was the vehicle parked out front: an older jeep sitting alongside Kelly's scooter, with someone still behind the wheel.

"Hats on," Soren said.

He tugged a black baseball cap low over his forehead and stepped out first.

The bell above the door chimed as they filed in.

Inside, Kelly was behind the counter working through a presentation for three customers — white men, broad-shouldered, wearing sunglasses despite being indoors. She looked up when Soren and the others entered, and her expression shifted into something distinctly warmer.

Another good customer.

"Hey, Snyder." She set down the firearm she'd been holding and smiled across the counter. "Morning. What can I get you today?"

"Ammunition," Soren said.

He was already reading the three men. Their clothing was loose and deliberately unrevealing, making it hard to confirm whether they were carrying. But the one currently inspecting the handgun Kelly had passed him had a thick callus along the web of his thumb where the grip of a pistol sits after years of use. There were old blade scars on his forearm, faded and settled into the skin. And all three had spread out without being told to, positioning themselves in a clean indoor triangular formation — the kind of instinctive spacing that doesn't come from a weekend course. Their eyes hadn't stopped moving since the door opened.

These weren't civilians.

Military, maybe. Or something adjacent to it.

The one with the g*n seemed to register Soren's attention. He glanced over, brief and flat.

Their eyes met for less than a second. Both looked away at the same time.

The same conclusion, reached simultaneously: the other man knew what he was doing.

Soren turned back to Kelly as she came around to pour water for the group. "Same guns we bought yesterday — three hundred rounds each to start. We'll come back when we need more."

"Done," Kelly said, and disappeared into the back.

The moment she was gone, the room changed. Not dramatically — no one moved, no voices rose — but the air thinned in the way it does when people who know how to be dangerous are sharing a small space and taking each other's measure.

Howard and Evan didn't seem to notice. Cody did. He'd felt it the moment they walked in, that low, pressurized weight coming off the three men, and he'd been standing close to Soren ever since. Now Soren caught the change in his breathing — shallow, quickening — and saw his hand drift back toward the pistol tucked at his waistband. His fingers found the hem of his shirt and started to lift it.

"Cody," Soren said, his tone easy and unhurried, "go out to the car with Howard and grab the cash."

Cody blinked. The tension in his hand released. He recognized what had just happened, gave a short nod, and followed Howard outside without a word.

The man with the g*n let out a low laugh. "Rabbits," he said in English, loud enough to carry.

The other two found it funny. The laughter was relaxed, almost lazy, the kind that's designed to land.

Soren smiled back without any warmth in it. "When you're away from home," he said in easy English, "keeping a low profile tends to keep you out of trouble."

The man's amusement faded. He narrowed his eyes at Soren, something harder moving behind them now.

Soren held his gaze without shifting, tracking the other two in his peripheral vision, watching hands and weight distribution and the small signals that come before movement.

The silence stretched.

Then the back door swung open and Kelly came through carrying an aluminum case, setting it on the counter with a solid thunk. "Snyder, here's your order."

The sound broke the moment cleanly, the tension dissolving as if it had never quite solidified.

"Thanks, Kelly," Soren said, turning to her with a relaxed nod.

A beat later, Howard and Cody came back through the front door, cash in hand, and the room settled back into something ordinary.