I have looked up the cross streets of the clubhouse that she told me about online and examined the exterior on Google Maps. I walked virtually up and down the street trying to find out as much as I could about what I am about to walk into. There is no real-time video recording data, of course, so it’s hard to know what kind of men I can expect to meet there.

Nicholas’ mom warned me that they will not be happy to see me and that will make it even worse. Nicholas double-crossed them a long time ago and they will view me as a way to get even with him. There’s only one problem with that plan. Nicholas is locked up and he’s not getting out unless they give me some information.

I’m tempted to tell Sydney where I’m going and to ask for her help but I’m afraid she will do everything in her power to stop me.

Still, I can’t just walk in there without some sort of way to protect myself.

No, I need a gun.

I need to buy one and then teach myself how to use it.

But if I want to use it and have it not be traced back to me, I can’t have it registered in my name.

I search for “how to buy a gun online” and read about all of the regulations, or lack thereof, that exist.

A few pages into the search results, I stumble upon forums where people can sell each other weapons without going through licensed dealers.

As I go deeper and deeper down the wormhole, I quickly find posts by owners selling guns without identification numbers and those willing to ship them to anyone, even those who state that they can’t pass any background checks.

After messaging with a few different people using my burner phone and a fake name, I find one who is willing to meet up with me to do the exchange.

I consider having them mail it to me but I’d like to go there tomorrow. Needing a safe place to meet, I suggest Starbucks.

Later that evening, after waiting for my chai latte, a middle-aged man with the collar of his pea coat pulled up starts to make small talk with me.

I had been eyeing the rotund man in the corner hiding behind his laptop thinking that he might be the seller, but it turns out that it’s this sophisticated-looking man with polished black shoes.

Neither of us ask any questions. Instead, he opens the bag that he has slung across his body and unfolds the brown wrapping paper around it.

I peek over his shoulder, assessing the merchandise. Ideally, I could take it out and feel it in my hand but in this case, I have to take the word of a complete stranger.