Lawrence walked past the sounds of some... rather intensive lovemaking if he was any judge, finding an unlocked an unused room a few doors down. A good a place to stay as any.
Locking the door behind him, he set to work.
The Kalashnikov was easily 40 years old, an AKM if his memory was right. Solid, reliable, would punch a hole in just about anything at 100 meters. He filled up a magazine, thirty rounds, slapped it into the weapon, and racked the slide. It was old, scratched, and somewhat battered, but the rifle worked fine. The action moved smooth as silk, and the barrel seemed perfectly serviceable. It'd do. The shotgun though... the shotgun was in much better condition. The barrel had been sawed down to the edge of the pump action and then the edges smoothed out, so the wad wouldn't catch on anything. The owner had even thrown in a slight choke, for a tighter pattern. The stock was also slightly trimmed down to make raising it to the shoulder a little quicker. It fit his like a glove, the perfect size. Filling the tube, he left the action open - the second he slid it closed it would chamber, so no need to throw on the safety either. Sighing, he collapsed on the bed. The Redheaded driver had no words for him as he slipped into a nap. They were both very, very tired.
