The two men were dressed in expensive, casual clothes: silk shirts, linen pants and tasseled Italian loafers. Bolan checked his appearance in the visor-mounted mirror, smoothing his gelled black hair one last time. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him out of a tanned face.
They sat in a silver Cadillac Escalade, its rear shocks compressed from the heavy load in the rear, peering through tinted windows at their eventual destination. Bolan suppressed his smile as he glanced at Calvin James, a member of Phoenix Force, and his partner for this op. “You ready?”
The lanky African-American snorted. “I was born ready. Just make the call. And remember, these fuckers don’t mess around. They sniff pork, we’re both dead men.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing we don’t mess around, either.” Bolan hit a speed-dial button on his cell phone and lifted it to his ear. “We’re here... Same ride as always... Hell no, we weren’t followed. Yeah, yeah.” He turned to James. “Flash your lights.”
James flicked the headlight switch on and off once, then again while taking one last look around to make sure no one was taking undue interest in what was about to go down.
Next to the warehouse, several large, rusty panel trucks rested in a parking lot, all encircled by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The gate to the lot was closed and secured with a rusty chain. Bolan thought he saw a glint of shiny metal on the chain, but before he could take a second look, the warehouse’s garage door rumbled up, revealing a cavernous, dark interior. A single light flashed on inside, casting a dim glow into the cloudy night.
“Let’s do it.” James put the SUV in gear and rolled forward.
Bolan fixed his partner with a searching gaze. “You followed my advice, right?”
“Yeah, although I still think we’re courting suicide to go in not packing.”
“We’re arms dealers, not users—there’s no reason for us to carry. Besides, the SUV’s armored, so just get to it in case of trouble, remember?”
“Yeah, it’s surviving the short trip in one piece that concerns me.”
“I suggest leaving your door open a crack. That split second to work the handle can make the difference between life and death.”
Now James glanced over at him, meeting Bolan’s calm, steady gaze. “Damn it, I never can tell if you’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
The gleaming SUV pulled up in front of a cluster of eight Latinos, all dressed in variations of the L.A. gangland look: baggy, low-riding jeans, white wife-beater
T-shirts, or flannels with the top button fastened, even in the city’s ninety-five-degree heat, and immaculate ball caps or bandanas tied low, almost covering their eyes. The light from the overhead lamp illuminated only the surrounding area, making Bolan’s threat sense tingle a bit; they had no way of knowing who might be in the darkness, waiting to attack when the time was right.
The garage door descended behind them, cutting off the outside with a slam of metal on concrete. The gang members slowly fanned out in a loose semicircle around the Escalade, no one making a sound.
“Time to get into character.” Slipping on a pair of blue-tinted, wire-rimmed glasses, Bolan took a breath, let it out and popped the door, swinging out and letting his Italian loafers hit the stained warehouse floor with a smack. The still air was redolent of gasoline and oil, making his nose wrinkle. He glanced around, taking in all the members in a quick sweep, and immediately sensing a difference in this gang. Other L.A. street gangs would be more relaxed making a buy on their home turf—smoking blunts, talking shit, posturing, the usual bull. This group was all business. In fact, Bolan was reminded of a pack, each one knowing his place and wholly intent on what he was about to do—whether that be consummate the deal, or beat the shit out of Bolan and James before killing them.
“Hola, amigos!” Bolan casually pushed the door shut, stopping it just short of closing, talking all the while to draw their attention away from what he was doing.
“You guys sure picked an out-of-the-way place— Hey, hey, there’s no need for that.” His protest went unheeded as two of the vatos stepped forward and quickly patted down Bolan and James, paying particular attention to the collars, waistbands, ankles and groins. Bolan glanced at James, his eyebrows narrowing in a silent warning not to make any kind of sarcastic remark.
One of the gang members stepped forward. “Hola, Mr. Sabato. Pleased t’see you kept your end so far.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a salesman if I tried to put one over on my clients now, would I? So what’s with the not-so-warm welcome?”
“None o’yer bus’ness. Let’s see whatcha got.”
“I like a man who gets to the point. Step around here into my office.” Bolan’s cover was a slightly motor-mouthed arms dealer—not his usual mode of operation, but he kept up the pretense as he led the gang leader to the back of the SUV. He hit the remote on his key fob, opening the tailgate to reveal four long olive-green wooden boxes. “Here they are.”
He stood back as the banger motioned two of his men forward to haul one out. As they worked, Bolan and his glasses watched and recorded everything, scanning faces, identifying marks and tattoos. All of the members were inked, and all of them had the same mark on them: MS-13.
Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, was the fastest-growing gang on the West Coast, and probably in the United States, as well. Originally started in L.A. in the 1980s to protect newly immigrated El Salvadorans, the gang had grown to encompass about eight thousand members, all Hispanic, and its influence had spread like wildfire from California throughout the rest of the nation. Its members were loyal and utterly ruthless when it came to expanding their territory. While this made it easier for Bolan and his partner to arrange arms stings like this one, they still risked death every time they set one up.
One of the members looked up from the lettering stenciled on the crate. “Hey, man, these ain’t submachine guns. Whatcha pullin’ here, homes?”
“Hold on now, guys. Before you get all uptight, just wait and see what I’ve brought you.” Bolan pulled a small pry bar from the cargo bed and handed it to the leader. “Go on, open it up.”
The banger handed the tool to one of his own and stood back, watching as they opened the crate with a squeal of loosened nails. The cover flew off to reveal six unusual-looking weapons.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the Steyr Army Universal Gun, or AUG P, compact version.” Bolan reached down and pulled one of the futuristic assault rifles from the crate. The gun almost looked unbalanced, with a slot for a 30-round magazine halfway between the shoulder butt and the trigger, which was mounted on a swept-back handle with a large trigger guard that protected all of the fingers on the firing hand. The stock and handle were made out of a single molded piece of drab-green, high-impact fiberglass-reinforced polyamide 66, with a stubby black barrel jutting above a folding handgrip. The weapon looked like something out of a science fiction movie, even though the design had been manufactured since the late 1970s.
Now Bolan had their full attention. Their leader, known only as Araña, or Spider, crossed his arms. The rest of the gang closed ranks around him, hands disappearing into their large pockets, tensing to act on a moment’s notice if necessary. “We’d agreed on two dozen submachine guns. What the hell’s this?”
“These are submachine guns, my friends, and with them I guarantee you will rule the streets.” Bolan reached down to pull a translucent plastic magazine from the box and insert it into the butt. “Cops and SWAT teams are armored against 9 mm, but these guns use 5.56—more than enough to take them out if necessary.”
Araña