Chapter 18: ARMORY
The Continental's basement smelled like wine and gunpowder.
The elevator had deposited me in a corridor that looked more like a private wine cellar than an armory—brick walls, soft lighting, wooden racks holding bottles that probably cost more than my monthly rent. But underneath the burgundy and chardonnay, I could detect the sharp chemical scent of cleaning solvent and lubricating oil.
Guns lived here. The wine was just camouflage.
"May I help you, sir?"
The sommelier emerged from between two towering wine racks. He was older than I'd expected—sixties, maybe, with the weathered hands of someone who'd spent decades handling delicate objects. His suit was impeccable, his posture professional, and his eyes missed absolutely nothing.
"I need to resupply," I said. "Nine millimeter ammunition. And a backup piece if you have one."
The sommelier's expression remained pleasant. "Of course, sir. We carry an excellent selection of personal protection items. If you'll follow me?"
He led me deeper into the basement, past racks of wine that gave way to displays of a different sort. Glass cases holding handguns arranged like museum pieces. Drawers labeled with caliber designations. A wall of ammunition boxes organized by type and manufacturer.
"For nine millimeter, I might recommend the Speer Gold Dot for defensive purposes. Excellent expansion, reliable feeding." He pulled a box from the wall and presented it like he was offering a vintage champagne. "Four magazines would be... one gold coin."
Reasonable. Expensive by civilian standards, but I wasn't a civilian anymore.
"And the backup?"
"Ah." The sommelier moved to a glass case near the back of the room. Inside, a row of compact pistols gleamed under carefully positioned lighting. "For concealed carry, the Glock 19 remains popular. Reliable, effective, compatible with your existing ammunition and training. However, the Sig Sauer P365 offers superior concealment with comparable capacity..."
He talked about weapons the way other men talked about wine—terroir and tannins replaced by trigger pull and muzzle velocity. I listened, absorbing the information, making mental notes about options I couldn't afford.
"The Glock 19 would be ideal," I said finally. "What's the cost?"
"One gold coin for the weapon. One coin for four magazines of quality defensive ammunition. Two coins total." The sommelier's eyes drifted to my hands—specifically, to their emptiness. "How would you like to proceed?"
I reached into my pocket. Produced the single gold coin that represented my entire operational capital.
The sommelier's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The warmth didn't leave his face, but something cooled behind his eyes.
"I see." He returned the ammunition box to its place on the wall. "Perhaps we might arrange alternative specifications. A smaller caliber, perhaps? The .380 offers—"
"Put it on my tab."
The voice came from behind me. Female, confident, carrying the easy authority of someone who expected to be obeyed.
I turned.
The woman approaching through the wine racks was maybe thirty—dark hair pulled back in a practical style, sharp features, eyes that assessed me the way a buyer assessed merchandise. She wore Continental staff clothing: professional but understated, the uniform of someone who served the elite without being one of them.
"Ms. Vasquez," the sommelier said, his warmth returning. "A pleasure as always."
"Roberto." She nodded to him, then focused on me. "Matt Radcliff, yes? I've heard about your work in Chinatown."
How does she know my name? How does she know about Chen's job?
The Continental's information network was more extensive than I'd realized. Everyone knew everyone's business here. Privacy was an illusion maintained by professional courtesy rather than actual secrecy.
"I'm sorry," I said carefully. "I don't think we've met."
"Elena Vasquez. Hospitality services." She extended her hand. Her grip was firm, professional, exactly long enough to convey confidence without aggression. "I make it my business to notice promising new additions to our community. You've been here twice now. You handled the Petrov situation efficiently. And word travels about your performance in Brighton Beach this afternoon."
Word travels fast. Volkov's been dead for less than three hours and she already knows.
"News moves quickly here," I said.
Elena smiled. The expression didn't quite reach her eyes, but it wasn't cold either—more like a professional default that left room for genuine warmth if circumstances warranted it.
"Our guests value current information." She turned to the sommelier. "Roberto, please give Mr. Radcliff what he requested. Glock 19, four magazines of defensive ammunition. Put the balance on my account."
The sommelier hesitated for just a moment—not doubt, exactly, but surprise. "As you wish, Ms. Vasquez."
He moved to collect the items, leaving me alone with a woman who'd just paid for weapons on behalf of a stranger.
"Why?" I asked.
Elena tilted her head slightly. "Why what?"
"Why help me? You don't know me. For all you know, I'm a liability—the new guy who leaves witnesses and gets photographed during surveillance."
"I know about the witness," she acknowledged. "I also know you adapted your timeline rather than pretending the compromise hadn't happened. And Brighton Beach was handled professionally, despite the complications." She paused. "Everyone starts broke, Mr. Radcliff. I remember when I couldn't afford ammunition either. Someone helped me then. Now I help people who seem worth investing in."
Investing. Like I'm a portfolio she's building for future returns.
"What do you expect in return?"
Elena's smile warmed slightly—the first genuine expression I'd seen from her. "Interesting conversation. Information, occasionally, when you have it to share. And curiosity."
"Curiosity about what?"
"What you become." She stepped back as Roberto returned with the weapons. "This business has a way of shaping people. Some become monsters. Some become legends. Most become corpses. I like to watch the process and see which category new arrivals fall into."
The sommelier handed me a black nylon bag. Inside: a Glock 19 identical to my primary, four loaded magazines, a cleaning kit, and a simple shoulder holster. The weight felt like salvation.
"Thank you," I said. To Roberto for the service. To Elena for the intervention. The words felt inadequate.
"Come back when you can afford to repay me," Elena said. "We'll have drinks. Discuss your progress." She paused at the entrance to the wine corridor. "And Mr. Radcliff? The next time you surveil someone in Russian territory, try to blend in better. The pirozhki was a nice touch, but you walked like a soldier, not a tourist."
She disappeared between the wine racks, leaving me with Roberto and a bag full of weapons I hadn't earned.
"Ms. Vasquez is an unusual woman," the sommelier offered, polishing a glass that didn't need cleaning. "She's helped three others in your position over the past decade. Two of them became quite successful. The third..." He trailed off diplomatically.
"What happened to the third?"
"Overconfidence, sir. A hazard of the profession." Roberto set down the glass. "Will there be anything else?"
I looked at the bag. At the weapons that represented Elena Vasquez's faith in my potential. At the debt I now owed to a woman I'd just met.
"No. Thank you."
The elevator carried me back to the lobby. The Continental was still beautiful—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, well-dressed killers sipping cocktails at the bar. But something had shifted in my perception of it.
It's not just a hotel. It's not just a network. It's an ecosystem. And Elena Vasquez has just marked you as someone worth cultivating.
I pushed through the front door into the Manhattan evening. The bag of weapons was heavy against my shoulder. My single gold coin was gone—actually, less than gone, since Elena had covered a two-coin purchase.
I owed her now. The question was what that debt would eventually cost.
"What you become."
Her words echoed as I walked toward the subway. Monster or legend or corpse. Those were the options she'd laid out. The paths available to someone in my position.
The System hummed quietly in the back of my mind. Satisfied with the day's progress. Pleased that its host was acquiring resources, building connections, growing stronger.
I didn't know what I was becoming. But I knew what I wasn't going to become: a victim. Not of this world. Not of the criminals who populated it. And not of the System that had bound me here against my will.
Elena wants to see what category I fall into.
I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and kept walking.
So do I.
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