Pro tip: if you need to buy a good gun in a hurry, check pawn shops around military bases. Marine Corps posts are my preference, since they tend to have more in the way of fancy stuff, but we didn’t have time to make it out to Camp Lejeune. Fort Bragg would have to do.

Why pawn shops, and why military bases? The answer is simple: dumbass privates. There’s always some kid, fresh out of mommy and daddy’s house, with no bills to pay and a wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket. First time they get off post and into town, they’re going to do one of three things: buy a car at 30% interest, propose to a stripper, or buy a really fancy gun or computer. And then, a few months down the road when they realize they’ve spent themselves into more debt than they can pay, they’ll turn around and pawn their shiny new toys. Especially if they bought a car at 30% interest or married that stripper. 

The pawn shops are all too happy to rip them off, and then charge ten times what they paid to the next poor sap that comes through the door looking for a toy to drop a paycheck on. It’s a cruel system, in a way, but it’s an effective way to drill home some valuable life lessons. 

It also means that if you need a gun in a hurry, and you don’t mind paying through the nose for it, your best bet is to go shopping near a military base. End pro tip.

“This place is a shithole,” Cora complained from the passenger seat of our borrowed Ford Fusion. 

Fayetteville, North Carolina, the largest town near one of the largest Army bases in the continental United States, is in fact a shithole. Or at least it is compared to Haven. Back in the day it was infamous for drugs, prostitution, and violence, earning it the nickname Fayettenam from veterans of the 82nd Airborne Division, but the last decade or so heralded a remarkable turnaround in fortune. 

By the standards of semi-rural North Carolina, Fayetteville is pretty decent these days. They’ve really done a lot to clean the place up. But there’s not a city on Earth that doesn’t look like a shithole compared to Haven. The Old Gods just built that place different. 

“You shoulda seen it a few years ago,” I said, checking for traffic as I got onto the exit for Bragg Boulevard. “Used to be, you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting a crackhead around here, even this early in the morning.”

We left Haven just a little after five in the morning. Even for Hunters, who have priority access to the gates that connect the Vale to the real world, it takes some time to clear customs. 

There are three outgoing and three incoming gates on the Vale side, each one connecting to more than a dozen different sub-gates at different points in the real world. North America had seven dedicated portals: one in San Francisco, one in Portland, one in Dallas, one in Miami, two in New York City, and one in Charlotte, North Carolina.  

It took us another hour after we got to Charlotte to clear customs on that side, procure transport, and get on the road. Another three hours after that and we were in Fayetteville, just in time for the oppressive heat and humidity of a North Carolina summer to make its presence felt. It was a little after 9 now, and with some cheap and greasy fast food in our stomach for breakfast, we made our way to our first target. 

If you’ve spent any time in Fayetteville, you know the place I’m talking about. I’m not going to bother to name it, because the lousy bastards aren’t paying me to advertise. Suffice to say, it was big, and it had lots of stuff, and most of it of questionable provenance. 

“What can we do you for?” asked the bored looking clerk. 

He was an older fellow, and had the slightly unkempt look of a man whose wife wasn’t around anymore to tell him off for wearing wrinkled clothes. Bear gut, bushy beard, tattoos, probably a veteran. Guys like this are a common sight around posts, nearly as common as pawn shops and strip clubs. They got out of the service for one reason or another, but couldn’t stand to be around civilians all the time, so they stuck around. 

Guys like him can be miserable bastards. They know their best years are behind them, they know they don’t have much in the way of future prospects, and they know you know too. So, they work to afford alcohol and a shooting habit, drinking their way into an early grave as they tell anyone who’ll listen about their glory days. They’re also hidden gems if shit really hits the fan. Without much of a life outside of work, drinking, and shooting, they tend to be real crack shots, and they’re too desensitized to crack under pressure. 

“Looking for a long gun,” I said. “I’ve got a competition this afternoon, but the airline ‘lost’ my luggage, rifle included.”

“That sucks,” he said, looking me up and down. 

I’ve not really described myself before, so let’s start with the basics: I’m tall by most anyone’s standards, around 6’4” in my stocking feet. I’ve never been super muscular, though the Brute magic had added some extra girth to my biceps, and I could almost see my abs. My hair is dark brown, liberally threaded with silver, and my eyes are a dull green that gives way to hazel in around the pupil. I come from Scots Irish stock, so I’m fairly pale, but like most Scots Irish, I’ve got some Native blood in me, so when I tan, I turn more red than brown. I was dressed simply, in loose fitting jeans and a black T-shirt without any designs or logos. 

If you know what to look for, I’m pretty obviously military, or former military. I don’t have as many tattoos as most, only one on my shoulder you couldn’t see, and one on my right forearm from my last deployment. My gait is a little stiff, a sure sign of someone who’s spent too much time beating their knees and back all to hell on ruck marches, but I’d mastered the trick of observing a room without focusing on any one thing. 

The clerk could read the signs as well as anyone. And since I was too old to be a boot, that meant I wasn’t an easy mark. He sighed and slid off his bench. 

“How far you shooting?” he asked. 

“We’re going out to six today, but I want to be good for eight or farther,” I said. 

“Might have something,” he replied. It was clearly too early for proper grammar. “Budget?”

“Sky’s the limit, so long as it’s worth it.”

That perked him up a bit. He might not be able to send me out the door with some overpriced garbage, but he could unload something too top shelf to move at the price he wanted. 

“Hold a minute, lemme check the back.”

I passed the time by looking at the pistols he had on display in the cases. Good selection, for given values of good. Lots of Glocks, M&Ps, and Sigs. I was hoping to snag an FK BRNO while I was here, but no dice. It was a fairly new gun that shot an obscure but extremely powerful 7.5mm bullet. 

There was, however, a Glock 40 MOS in 10mm. Now there was a find. Like most Glocks, it looked more like a Soviet architect’s idea of a handgun, but it was chambered in 10mm Auto, and the 6 inch barrel could get some truly startling performance out of the bullet. This one looked to be in pretty good shape, and already had a Trijicon RMR fixed to the slide. The price tag was eye watering, but I was in a hurry, and had cash to burn. 

I guess I’m not so different from those dumbass privates, when you get right down to it. 

Just as I was mentally preparing to drop more on a gun than I had on my first car, the clerk came back with a rifle case. He set it on the counter, popped the latches, and turned it around so I could see the contents. 

“JP LRI-20,” he said simply. “6.5 Creedmoor.”

I whistled appreciatively. Now this was a damn rifle. 

JP Enterprises has a reputation in the rifle world. They make some of the best guns money can buy, but boy howdy, you’re going to pay for them. And with the traditional pawn shop markup, there was more money on the counter than there was in the parking lot. 

I gingerly picked it up and worked the charging handle a few times. True to its reputation, it was smooth as butter. The side charging handle would take some getting used to, but that also meant I could run it suppressed without gas blowing back into my face. I popped the rear takedown pin out, swung the lower receiver down, and inspected the internals. Everything was in good working order. 

“Sold,” I said. “And the Glock 40, while we’re at it.”

“You, uh, ain’t gonna ask how much or try to talk me down?” he asked, suspicious. 

“Keep the price tag under five figures for the both of them and I don’t give a shit. Any more than that and I’ll have to call my bank, and I’m not caffeinated enough for a phone call. You decide how much it’s worth to free up the shelf space,” I said. 

“Eh, fine. It was a mistake buying the damn thing in the first place. Some colonel came in with a sob story about needing money for an emergency. I knew it was bullshit, but I took the gamble anyway.” 

He shrugged and closed the case. 

“Got a purchase permit for the Glock?” he asked. 

In North Carolina, you need a pistol purchase permit if you want to buy a handgun. However, if you already have a state concealed carry permit, that’s just as good. 

“I got my CCP,” I said. “Still valid.”

“I’ll get started on the paperwork.”