Weapon Shop


Author: Kyle Bernard <csktech[at]yahoo.com>

Copyrighted: Jun 19, 2003

Category: Crossover

Spoilers: None

Keywords: None

Warning: Crossovers ahead (Yes Plural.)

The Following TV Series or books have been included in the story.

Disclaimers appear at the end with the cast list.

* Buffy the Vampire Slayer

* Original characters from Tenhawk's Journeyverse

* Original characters from A Dragan's Tale by Nu Klear

Legalese: All characters with their respective rights, properties, and copyrights are the property of their respective creators, authors, owners, producers, and agencies. These characters are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended or meant, and no money will be made from this story. This story may be copied in its entirety, and may be distributed as long as all copyright information remains.

Summary: This is the compilation of all the Andy and Terry stories. Lots of new material as well as the short stories that I have written in the past are included in one big story. Now: On with the show. Lives are destroyed in the process and rebuilt when what should have been the happiest day turns out to be the saddest. Questions will be asked and answered. Hopes and dreams will be fulfilled.

Based in Tenhawk's Journeyverse this story in meant to compliment his visions. I am not the writer that Ten is and never will be but I count him a friend and thank him for letting me play in his universe and even destroy them once or twice.

Author's Notes: <…> indicates thoughts. //…// Indicates telepathy.

Rating: PG-13 to PG-16; for mild cursing, violence, and demonic horror content. in other words a bit more grown up then the series. but only cause I don't have to suck up to censors.

Author's Note: Huge thanks to Tenhawk for his help with this and all of my stories. If he didn't let me play in his verse, my life would be less joyful. In addition, as always to Robert Stevenson, the editor to whom I can never give enough credit.

Los Angeles, CA

The pavement was broken in places, burned out cars left where they had stopped. Graffiti covered all of the walls in sight and gang tags were evident everywhere Andy looked, "Damn it Terry, are you sure you have the right directions, this place looks like a combat zone."

Andy wasn't far off. The streets around the building were covered with trash, used condoms, and crack vials. It was too early for the whores to be working their trade, but Andy was sure that come sundown they would show up and along with them, their seedy customers.

Neighborhood toughs stood on the street corners, watching the unfamiliar van drive through their turf. Everywhere the van went; it was watched by hundreds of eyes, some right out in the open and others, the ones whose opinion really mattered, hidden in the broken down tenements. Suspicions filled the air, Terry and Andy looked like cops and the gangs that ran the street couldn't allow any invasion of their turf.

Terry looked down at the written directions he'd been given. "Buddy, if you want to navigate, I'll be more than happy to drive." He pointed left, "In here, that's the place."

Andy wasn't pleased with what he saw. Sandwiched between two apartment buildings, was what looked like an old auto repair shop. "Oh you've got to be kidding me. How am I supposed to run a gun shop in this kind of place?"

"I don't want you to leave Terrace Points. This was totally your decision. Besides, who would ever think of looking for you here?" Andy grudgingly admitted that Terry had a point. The whole purpose of leaving Terrace Points was to get away from his family to protect Lynn and Terry from the headhunters. Get away, but not too far.

There had been a scare last month. Another Immortal had driven through Terrace Points and simply stopped for a cup of coffee. Fate would have it that Andy was in the truck stop at the same time. Fortunately for both of them, the immortal just nodded his head at Andy and moved about his own business. That warning had been enough. It was time to move on.

Andy and Terry pulled into the old building, cautious of the people around them. The hostility in the air was apparent, as Andy's wheelchair lift sank to the ground. He spied the group of teenagers, most of them no older the Lynn was, but they all displayed the haunted look of combat veterans.

Andy kept an eye on them as he rolled off the chair lift. "Heads up Ter. Trouble at twelve o'clock."

"Yea I see the little punks. Think they have the balls?"

"We're gonna find out real fucking fast, here they come. You packing?"

"When am I not carrying a gun? I've got your old Browning with me, you?

Andy discreetly reached down to the left side wheel of his wheelchair. "Gee, let's see, sword, and a couple of chakrams, plus my trusty Smith & Wesson. I think we can handle these pukes."

Terry wasn't given the chance to answer; a beer bottle struck the van before he could speak.

One of the teens dressed torn jeans and a leather bomber jacket, his face badly scarred by acne, the leader by the looks of it, charged Terry with a knife. "Give me your money old man, or I'll cut your balls off." The tough-looking teen flashed a wicked-looking knife.

"Well boy there's just one problem with that little scenario, one, you ain't big enough to take anything, and two, never ever bring a knife to a gunfight. Terry whipped out the browning Hi-power and drew down on the street tough. Your move asshole." Terry kept the tone of his voice even and controlled, hoping that a display of control would confuse the hoodlums. If they doubted their control of the situation maybe they would walk away alive. He might have had a chance, then he added the wrong words. "Walk away junior, your way out of your league here."

"You think your bad motherfucker," he turned to his posse. "Grandpaw Jones and his crippled assed sidekick, here thinks he's bad, homes. Grit, show this motherfucking asshole who's bad."

A black kid, wearing a greasy denim jacket that was covered with club patches, reached in and pulled out an M-11 submachine gun. "I'm gonna air you bitches out!" Those were the last words he would ever speak.

Terry switched targets without a thought. Trusting Andy to cover any other threat, He fired three shots from the Browning so quickly that they sounded like a single shot. The hood known only as Grit fell to the ground. The first two bullets ruptured both lungs and the third shot blew the back of his head out, spreading his brains all over the broken asphalt.

The leader, who they would later learn was named Kenneth Stapelton, wasn't as lucky as his lackey. He lived long enough to feel the solid titanium chakram split his skull. He dropped the knife to the ground and tried to grab the weapon, but even that was futile. He was already dead.

The other three members of the gang ran off. The war had just begun.

Billy Simms was the youngest of the gang members that attacked the old fucks that had dared to enter 69 boys turf. He was standing at the back enjoying the show, right until Skate told Grit to off the old fuck. He watched in horror as the back of Grit's skull blew chunks all over the sidewalk.

Billy took off running. He didn't even wait to see if the heat showed up. Running as fast as his Nikes could carry him. Billy climbed the stairs of the abandoned warehouse where Snake hung out when his troops were working the street.

"Snake." Billy panted, still running on adrenaline.

Snake, also known to the police as Robert Brunner, slapped Billy across the head, sending him flying across the room. "How many times do I have to tell you, you never come here when we're doing the counting?" On the table were piles of money. Hundreds of five's, ten's and twenties were stacked on an old table at the back of the room.

"I know. I know, but this is different. Skate and Grit just got themselves off'd by two old white fucks."

Snake was a big man and violence was second nature to him. The business he was in demanded that. But anyone that could kill two pure killers like Skate and Grit had to be taken seriously. He grabbed Billy by the collar. "You go get the rest of the gang. We are gonna teach these white boys a lesson that they wont be around to appreciate."

Andy and Terry stood there waiting for the cops to show up. They were fairly sure that there wouldn't be much of a hassle. Neither of the two was overly disturbed about the two dead bodies. It was a sad fact, but the two of them had seen enough death in Viet Nam that they had become inured to it. They both had a gallows sense of humor: that was one of the ways of dealing with death that was a wholesale proposition.

"Damn" swore Andy, "At least in Nam we didn't have to wait around for someone to pick up the dead gomers."

"Hey Andy! Do you have any real firepower in the van?"

"Yea, M-16 and a MP5 in holders in the rear door why?"

The slow, unforgettable staccato of an AK-47 echoed through the rundown neighborhood. Terry dropped to the ground and rolled out of the way. "Cuz we have Gomers in the wire," he shouted.

Andy didn't bother to answer. The .44 rang out twice and then he retreated behind the safety of the van. He flipped the keys toward the rear of the van. The sounds of pistol shots rang out and the window of the van showered Andy with glass.

Terry unlocked the rear doors, cursing the whole time. When he got the double doors open he saw what Andy meant when he said holders. On the left side door there was a subgun in tactical holster, including spare magazines. He ripped the whole thing and tossed it over his shoulder.

"How bad is it Andy?" He yelled as he grabbed the M-16 and a bandoleer of clips.

"I make it one AK and a couple of 9mms." Another burst of automatic weapons fire stitched the van. "And An Uzi," Andy added.

Terry considered Andy's words. "Ok. I'll make a run for the garbage can over there. You cover me. Then when I get there I'll signal you and we can catch them in the crossfire."

Andy popped off a few more round from the revolver. He dumped the empty casings and reloaded the Smith from a speed loader. Andy stashed the pistol under his leg and took the H K from Terry. "Right idea, wrong person."


Andy slapped the receiver, dropping the bolt of the machine gun on a live round. "Look Terry, You don't come back to life when you get shot, I do. Case closed." Andy set the MP5 to full auto. "Ready?"

Terry nodded his head while he pulled the M16 on line.

The cripple Immortal drew in a sharp breath. "COVER." He began sprinting his chair like a special Olympic champion, pumping his muscle bound arms just as hard as he could push them. It was a testament to his physical condition that he made the 60 yard dash nearly as fast as he would have in his best pre-Viet Nam days.

Bullets and asphalt chips ricocheted all around Andy and he ignored the sharp burning pain he remember so well from His tour of duty. He was only 20 yards away from the safety of cover when Terry began shooting.

Terry for his part rolled away from the van. Then like nothing had happened in the intervening years he squeezed off three-controlled burst of three rounds each. The first burst caught the AK-47 gunner reloading; he fell to the ground like so much concrete. The rest of the gangsters dove for cover.

Terry dumped the partially spent magazine, then slapped a fresh one in its place. Then he checked to see if Andy was under cover. He gave the other veteran a quick OK signal and then pointed to his eyes with the first two fingers. Silently asking Andy what he saw.

Andy returned the sign, then flashed his five fingers on one hand and two more on the other hand. Andy then clenched his fist and pumped it up and down twice. Then he held up three fingers on his left hand. Though the signals weren't in any Army field manual, Terry knew what they meant. Andy had just told Terry that there were seven men advancing on their position and that they were thirty meters away.

Andy and Terry cleared cover in the exact same instant, guns blazing. The firefight lasted less than 15 seconds. The aimed and disciplined fire from the two combat veterans more then out matched the untrained blasting away from the seven gangbangers. Fifteen seconds and there were five more bodies to add to the body count. Among them were Snake, who was carrying the AK-47 and four others on the police's gang units most wanted list. The 69 boys had been kicked to the curb.

Los Angeles, CA

It had been a slow day. The fixtures in the shop had been installed, but the electrician had crapped out on Andy. He needed the building to be rewired for the new CNC mill that sat in the shop uncrated but useless, until he got the power to run it. With nothing else to do, Andy had taken the time to do some reloading. He was just in the process of changing dies when the phone rang. "Immortal Arms," He answered with more pride than he cared to admit.

"Andy. How ya doing boy, it's Sam Elliot from the Agency."

Andy had to laugh. You can take the boy out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the boy, Sam Elliot was living proof of that old saying. "I'm doing great Sam. What can I do for you today?"

"Well now son it's more like what I can do for you. I've found the perfect place for you. The house is a four bedroom on 3 acres and the best part is that it's already set up for someone in a wheelchair."

"You're joshing me." Andy had already figured that he have to pay out the nose to have the house retrofitted to accommodate his chair.

"Son I wouldn't bullshit a veteran. I gotta warn ya, it's a little more than what you were planning on spending, but I could search for a month of Sundays and not find a better place for you. If money is the problem I'm sure we can work something out. Whadda say boy, wanna take a look?"

"How fast can you get here?"

The house had proved to be everything that Sam claimed and more. The four bedrooms were all of a decent size; easily large enough to put a king size bed in them and still have plenty for room. Andy mentally noted to himself; to make sure one of them got repainted in colors that a girl wouldn't object too. He planned for Lynn to be a frequent visitor. <Like I could keep her away.>

The hallways and doorways were extra wide so that his wheelchair would turn around anyplace in the house. The real kicker was the kitchen. The sinks, stove and oven were all at the perfect height for a man in a wheelchair and there were no sharp edges to bump against. Who ever designed the place not only knew the problems the handicapped faced; even better, he understood.

It took Andy all of thirty seconds to make up his mind. "I'll take it how much?" he said in one fast breath.

"Well the owner wants 3.2, but I figure we can dicker him down a bit." Sam looked at Andy like the grandfather that he was. "I'll tell what, I think this place is perfect for you, I'll kick back 10 percent of my commission, that'll bring it right into the range that we discussed.

"Sam, I appreciate the offer more than I can say. You're about the first decent person I've met here in L.A. Let me borrow your cell phone and it's a deal."

Sam gladly handed Andy his cell phone. "If you're sure, but I still think we can dicker."

"Trust me Sam it's not a problem." Andy turned his attention to the cell phone that had just been picked up on the other end. "Dave its Andy, I'm about to write a very large check would you transfer 3.5 million to my account in L.A. please? Thanks Buddy how's Suz doing?"

When all was said and done, Andy had found a second home, now it was time to get to work.


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