THE STOLEN GUN

Aunt May's voice sounded across the conference room, a high pitched voice that piece through the air like an arrowhead. "Have you lost your sense of humanity, Rowlins?!" She paced back and forth, her left arm akimbo, her head bowed in disapproval. "You have to give it back! If they find out, you will be hanged, Rowlins."

Rowlins leaned against the window, puffing his cigarette smoke out the window as if someone is going to complain of smoking in the conference room. The aura of outside space empty darkness dimmed the denser illuminated room, casting blurry shadows that seemed to intensify with tension. "Relax, May. Nobody is going to find out." His voice was confident, but with slight tremor that portrayed a hint of doubt.

Aunt May's face expresses anger, her brows contorted. "What do you plan to do with an automatic machine gun that can fire over 900 rounds per minute? You've lost your mind!" She spat the words at him, her voice rising with each syllable. "Dump it somewhere the police can find it."

Rowlins shook his head, his expression unyielding. "I'll only use it as leverage when the time is right. It's a strategic asset." His lips curled into a smirk, as if he were picturing the smoothness of his plans.

Aunt May's face furrowed with doubt. "You're a gambler and a businessman, not a fool. If you sell those guns to anyone who's used them, the law will hang you. Do you understand the magnitude of what you're dealing with?"

Rowlins shrugged, his morale unwavering. "We've taken care of it. Our boys intercepted it from a patrol boat off the Mediterranean coast on their way back from Haskins coal supply. You worry too much."

Aunt May's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into her voice. "And the patrol officers? What if they identify any of your boys?" Her tone shifted from anger to fear, echoing through the room. "This is going to backfire on you, Rowlins!"

Rowlins waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a bothersome fly. "Don't worry. It's all under control. It cannot be trace it back to us."

The room fell silent, with the soft thud of Aunt May's footsteps, the only sound as she continued her nervous pacing. She stopped in front of Rowlins, her head raised defiantly, her eyes full of worries. "Where is it now? What is it called?"

Rowlins put out his cigarette and swallowed spit, "It's called the (BAR)—Browning Automatic Rifle. I've had our men conceal it somewhere no outsider can find it."

Aunt May's face paled, her expression one of horror. "Browning Automatic Rifles? You can't be serious, Rowlins! Those guns are notorious for their deadly accuracy and firepower. What if they fall into the wrong hands?"

Rowlins shrugged again, his expression unyielding. "I'll ensure that doesn't occur. As I mentioned, it's just a tool for negotiation."

Aunt May shook her head, her voice trembling with urgency. "You're playing with fire, Rowlins. Those guns can cause untold destruction. Have you considered the consequences? This isn't just business; this is reckless endangerment."

Rowlins snorted, dismissing her concerns with a wave of his hand. "Consequences? Ha! I'm a businessman, May. I take calculated risks. And this is a risk worth taking. You wouldn't understand."

As Rowlins exited the room, Aunt May watched him go, her heart heavy with dread. She knew her nephew was ruthless in his pursuit of power and wealth, but this was different. This was dangerous. This was a path that could lead to destruction, not just for him but for everyone around him.

Meanwhile, a shadowy figure in the hallway watched Rowlins leave, a calculating glint in their eyes. "What if someone else already knows about the gun?" the figure murmured to themselves, slipping back into the darkness. They had their own agenda, and Rowlins had unwittingly become a pawn in a larger game.

Unaware to Rowlins, that his actions had set off a chain reaction, one that would put him, Aunt May, and the entire organization at risk.

Secretly, a rival businessman operatives had been watching Rowlins' every move, waiting for the perfect moment to make their move on him.

Rowlins exited the conference room, moved toward his car with an air of confidence, he didn't realize a vehicle parked a distance away, its occupants observing him with close interest. It was Marcello and his boys. Rowlins started his car and drove off, his hand waving through his curly hair, playfully sneaking a peek of himself in the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of his own face—the face with a potential of being drawn into a web of danger.

Aunt May's mood tensed up the more, when she imagined the possible fallout of her nephew's decisions. She could feel the burns in her bones: this wasn't going to end well for them, but she struggled to figure out how to curtail Rowlins' reckless ambitions.

As he cruised the well lit city street down home, Rowlins observed a car on his tail, closing in on him, its headlights glaring ominously in the rearview mirror. Panic shocked through him as the reality of the situation dawned on him. His foot harder on the gas pedal, survival skill surged through his veins as he tried to shake off the pursuit. But the vehicle on his trail matched his speed, tailing him closely.

With a dangerous move, the other car sped past him, cutting him off and forcing him to a halt along the road side pavement. Rowlins' heart raced briefly, a turmoil of anger and fear through him. The occupants of the car jumped out—Marcello and two of his boys, with assault expressions.

"Hello, Rowlins," Marcello drone, a smirk on his lips. "I just thought I would say hey. Sorry for my dramatic approach." He leaned closer, eyes glinting dangerously. "Tell your brothers I say 'hey' too, and May."

Rowlins' blood ran cold as Marcello's words sunk in. "You're May's nephew, aren't you?" Marcello growled, his tone laced with danger. The reality hit Rowlins like a punch to the gut; his family ties were now a target, a weakness for his enemies to meddle with.

Before Rowlins could respond, Marcello and his boys receeded back into their vehicle and vanished into the night, leaving him stunned and reeling for some minutes. 

The encounter had been brief, but the message was deep. 

Who had tipped Marcello off? 

How much did he know?

As Rowlins returned to his car, his mind raced with thoughts of revenge and survival. He entered the vehicle and drove home at 65 mph, his thoughts were chaos, a storm of questions and fears. What had Marcello meant by his coded message? Was this a warning or an intimidation tactic?

He had undermined the risk, and now he seems to be caught up in a game far more hazardous than he had expected.

Rowlins arrived at his apartment, the familiar sights and feelings offering little relief. The flashing lights and the distant ambient noise of the city felt more stifling than usual. He stepped in, shot closed the door behind him, leaning against it as if he was hiding from someone.

He made fist of his two hands, pressed them together in an attempt to cool the rising tide of anxiety within him.

He needed to think. He needed a plan. Rowlins moved to his desk, pulled out drawers, fumbled with papers and scattered thoughts, but all he could see were images of Marcello's face and slow words with the implications of their encounter. Was this the beginning of a war? Would he have to defend his territory, his family? He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling as he tried to control and calm his racing imagination.

"Think, Rowlins," he muttered to himself, pacing through the room. "What's the next move?" Thinking to himself.

He considered his options. Confronting Marcello directly would prove abortive, and a risk he wasn't sure he could afford to take. But keeping the status quo would only invite more danger. He needed information. He needed proactive ideas. 

Rowlins reached for his phone, contemplating a few names, people he could put to work—men who could provide him with the intel he desperately needed and possibly deliver.

As he scrolled through his contacts, Aunt May's words recalled in his mind. She had always been a voice of reason, but he had chosen to ignore her this time. The stakes were greater now and he had to man up for the result of his actions, not just for himself but for his family as well.

Suddenly, a sound from his phone pulled him from his thoughts. A text message flashed across the screen, and his heart skipped a beat. It was from one of his comrades' informants. "I've heard whispers about Marcello's plans. Meet me at the docks tomorrow night. Midnight."

Rowlins felt a surge of positive energy. This was the break he needed. He responded with a quick reply, confirming the meeting, and set his phone down, suppressing the burning within him. He would turn the tables. He wouldn't be the one to be hunted; he would be the hunter. He assured his inner self.

As he prepared for the long night ahead, Rowlins realized that he was in a dangerous game—one that required both smartness and strength. He was walking a fine line, but it was one he had chosen.

The risk were high, and the clock ticking. The enemy was watching, and he had to act before too late. The shadow of Marcello loomed larger, his drone louder but Rowlins was determined to step into the light, ready to confront whatever awaited him beneath the enemy's eyes.