Adventures of Quigley & McFinleyyy Chapter 6 – Guns, Girls & the Grey Line
Adventures of Quigley & McFinleyyy
Chapter 6 – Guns, Girls & the Grey Line
Miami’s docks smelled like oil, salt, and desperation. Rusted shipping containers stacked against the skyline like tombstones. Floodlights buzzed overhead, bathing the concrete in pale electric glow. And parked dead-center was a convoy of black trucks—stuffed with enough rifles, grenades, and launchers to turn the city into rubble.
Quigley lit another cigarette, his white blazer collar turned up against the sea breeze. Beside him, McFinleyyy cracked his knuckles, shotgun resting casually on his shoulder like it was just another night out. The brunette leaned against the Ferrari, legs crossed, red lips gleaming under neon. The blonde perched on the hood, blowing bubblegum and twirling her hair.
“Feels like a setup,” McFinleyyy growled.
“Everything feels like a setup,” Quigley replied. “That’s because it usually is.”
The arms dealer arrived late, as expected. A thick Cuban with mirrored shades, gold chains glinting against his chest hair. He swaggered out of the shadows flanked by bodyguards with Uzis. His smile was all teeth, no warmth.
“Señores,” he said. “I hear you want to buy the city.”
Quigley smirked. “Rent first. See if we like the neighborhood.”
McFinleyyy barked a laugh, then spit on the concrete. The Cuban’s eyes narrowed, but he gestured toward the trucks. His men yanked open the doors, revealing crates upon crates of rifles wrapped in plastic. The smell of gun oil cut sharp through the humid air.
The brunette slipped close to Quigley, whispering in his ear. “If you take these guns, you’ll own Miami.”
He looked at her, cool and detached. “Owning Miami sounds like a mortgage I can’t afford.”
The blonde tugged on McFinleyyy’s arm, pouting. “Don’t trust him, baby. He’s scum.”
McFinleyyy shrugged. “Scum’s all we’ve got.”
The Cuban clapped his hands. “Ten million. Cash. Now.”
Quigley flicked ash onto the dock. “Funny thing about ten million. We left it in our other pants.”
The pause that followed was thick as tar. Bodyguards raised their Uzis. McFinleyyy grinned. “Knew it was a setup.”
The firefight exploded like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Bullets shredded the silence, ripping into containers, sparking against steel. Quigley dove behind a crate, firing back with icy precision, every shot a punchline. McFinleyyy stood broad-shouldered in the open, shotgun roaring, blasting men off their feet like ragdolls.
The brunette grabbed a dropped Uzi and joined in, spraying bullets with gleeful abandon. The blonde ducked behind the Ferrari, screaming, then promptly pulled a revolver from her purse and dropped two bodyguards with surprising accuracy.
“Remind me to frisk you next time,” McFinleyyy hollered.
The blonde winked, blowing smoke off the barrel.
Within minutes, the dock was a massacre. Trucks riddled with bullet holes, men bleeding into the seawater. The Cuban arms dealer crawled behind a container, clutching his stomach. Quigley stalked over, cigarette glowing in the shadows.
“You’re under arrest,” Quigley said flatly, flashing his badge like it was an afterthought.
The Cuban coughed blood, laughed bitterly. “Arrest? You’re no cops. You’re killers with paperwork.”
Quigley crouched, dragging on his cigarette. “Maybe. But Miami loves us for it.”
McFinleyyy approached, shotgun still smoking. “What’s the play? Take him in?”
Quigley stared at the Cuban for a long, silent beat. Then he stood and turned away.
“No. We make a deal.”
The brunette’s eyes widened. “What kind of deal?”
“The kind where he lives,” Quigley said, voice cold, “and we control the pipeline.”
McFinleyyy grinned like a wolf. “I like it. Guns flow, we skim the cream, everyone’s happy.”
“Except the bodies,” the blonde muttered.
Quigley lit another cigarette off the dying glow of his last. “Bodies don’t complain.”
They dragged the Cuban up, bloody but breathing. Terms were whispered in smoke and shadows: shipments would run under police noses, protected by the very badge meant to stop them. Quigley and McFinleyyy had crossed the line tonight, and there was no walking back.
As they drove away in the Ferrari, neon reflecting in the blood still spattered on the windshield, the brunette curled against Quigley’s shoulder. “You saved him. You’re not all bad.”
Quigley’s smile was sharp, joyless. “Don’t mistake business for mercy.”
McFinleyyy floored the gas, the Ferrari roaring down the empty strip. “Miami belongs to us now, partner.”
Quigley exhaled smoke into the humid night. “No. Miami doesn’t belong to anyone. But tonight, she’s letting us rent the penthouse.”
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