Enemy Arsenal

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 let his arms drop. “Fool, we ain’t out to start no war with the po-pos. We just wanna protect what’s ours.”

Bolan and James exchanged sidelong glances, and he realized he had inadvertently erred by mentioning killing cops. “Hey, I didn’t say you were going after them, but like you said, you want to protect what is yours, right? These babies fire 700 rounds per minute, and are perfectly balanced to be used with one hand, for drive-and-fire capability if necessary. The built-in scope is set at 300 meters, allowing you to outshoot any enemy you encounter, and lets you control the field of fire.” He held the loaded, but not primed, rifle out to Araña. “Here, feel how light it is.”

The young man accepted the weapon gingerly, grunting in surprise at its weight and stability. His fingers curled around the handle, staying clear of the trigger itself. Bolan stepped forward and pointed out features. “The bolt and ejection port cover can be swapped out to make the gun suitable for left or right-handed shooters, and the safety selector is also accessible from either side of the weapon.”

“You said it can shoot full-auto? Where’s the selector?” the gang leader asked.

Bolan nodded. “Glad you asked. You control the rate of fire by squeezing the trigger. Halfway back is single shot, and pulling the trigger all the way back engages fully automatic fire.”

His presentation brought the other members closer, all of them entranced by the high-tech weapon. “Of course, you could remove that sight to cut its profile down a bit, that’s up to you.”

“And you’re willing to sell these as originally agreed?”

“Not only that, but each weapon comes with four magazines, a muzzle cap, spare bolt for left-handed shooters, cleaning kit, sling and a mountable bayonet, if you have the desire to get up close and personal with your targets. That is, if you have the agreed-upon price, then we’re good to go.”

Araña nodded to one of the other members, who sauntered off into the darkness. Bolan resisted the urge to rock back and forth on his heels as he waited for the transaction to be completed. While he usually didn’t need to abide by the legal necessity of having the money trade hands, it didn’t hurt to make the exchange—it was a better lever to get the gang members to roll on each other later.

The tattooed thug returned with a brand-new duffel bag, which he gave to Araña, who unzipped the top and showed it to Bolan. Inside were well-used bills, all neatly banded. “Fifty thousand, as agreed.”

Bolan reached in for one of the bundles and riffled through it as if assessing the count. “Looks good to me. Your boys can move these other crates, and then we can go our separate ways—”

As if he had mentioned an arranged signal, the garage door began to open, making Bolan look over his shoulder, then at Araña, who stared at him with a frown. Bright spotlights flared into life from the outside, and the silhouetted forms of men appeared in the halogen glow.

“ATF! Everyone put your hands up!” a voice commanded through a bullhorn.

The MS-13 members exploded into action. Half of them took off into the darkness, the others yanked guns out of their waistbands and aimed them at the lights and shadows outside, diving to the floor or taking cover beside the SUV. Cal was nowhere to be seen.

“Chimado!” Araña yanked the cocking lever back and leveled the rifle at Bolan, who was already lunging at him, hands outstretched to grab the weapon before it cut him in two. He shoved the barrel up just before it could be aimed at his chest. Araña maintained enough control not to squeeze the trigger, ignoring the repeated commands to drop his weapon. Instead, he twisted the Austrian assault rifle to the right, nearly breaking Bolan’s grip on it, and shoving him nearer to the SUV.

“Everyone in the building drop your weapons and raise your hands now!” The bullhorn wielder still barked orders as black-fatigue-clad men crouched behind their cars, weapons aimed into the warehouse.

“Are you trying to get us all killed?” Bolan gritted between clenched teeth.

“You set us up—bastard!”

“What? If anything, they followed your sloppy asses here!” Bolan lashed out with his foot, catching the smaller man in the stomach with his heel. His opponent groaned but didn’t relinquish the gun. Screw this, Bolan thought, yanking back on the rifle one last time, then letting it go. The move caught the gangbanger by surprise, and he staggered back against the crates of weapons in the cargo bed of the truck. Bolan ran around the side of the Escalade, sprinting for the cracked-open passenger door.

“Drop your weapons or we will open fire!” the electronically enhanced voice shouted from behind him.

Bolan hooked the door, and yanked it open, only to find a banger already inside, his pistol shoved into James’s face as he screamed at him.

“I said start this motherfucker right now!” The startled vato was cut off in midsentence as Bolan yanked him backward, throwing him to the ground. The man’s pistol discharging as he hit the concrete floor.

The ATF agents didn’t need any more provocation, spraying the SUV and the surrounding area with bullets. Bolan lunged into the passenger seat, shouting, “Close the back! Close the back!” as he ducked, praying that none of the bullets would ricochet around the inside and punch through him like a fist through paper. He heard the punk-punk-punk of small arms rounds impacting on the back and sides of the sport-utility vehicle, and huddled even farther over. Although Bolan had been shot before, he never liked it.

“I’m on it.” James was also hunched in his seat. “So what happened to ‘take cover in here,’ huh?”

“I got delayed.” Bolan’s attention was drawn by the flare of headlights at the other end of the warehouse—large headlights. “You better start it up.”

“What in the hell is that?” James twisted the key as the headlights suddenly grew larger.

“I don’t know, but get us the hell out of its way!” Bolan grabbed for the wheel, twisting it to the right as James jammed on the gas, making the Cadillac leap forward as the oncoming lights grew even more blinding. The approaching vehicle, now recognizable as a huge, industrial tow truck, lurched toward them, striking them a glancing blow that rocked the luxury SUV onto two wheels before it settled back down with a crash of rubber and steel.

James looked back over his shoulder. “They’re not trying to make a break for it, are they?”

Bolan’s attention, however, was focused on the real escape. “Nope, it’s a diversion. Hit your lights.”

James did so, illuminating the back wall, where another door was sliding open enough to let out a low-rider, now crammed full of fleeing MS-13 members. Caught in the high beams, their jaws dropped in shock, then three of them pointed pistols and started shooting as the car angled its way out of the warehouse.

The Phoenix Force veteran tromped on the gas again and the Escalade shot forward, bullets starring its triple-

laminated windshield. Bolan braced himself as they shot out into the fenced yard. The car screamed toward the back of the perimeter, trying to gain enough speed to burst through the chain-link fence.

“Can you stop them before they get out?”

“I’m sure as hell gonna try.” James leaned over the steering wheel, trying to catch up with the retreating gangbangers, or at least get close enough to try to force them to stop. Although the car looked like a glittering piece of pimped-out Detroit trash, it had a kick-ass engine, because the bangers stayed ahead of the powerful SUV as it tore through the fence and into the street beyond. James stayed hard on their rear, bouncing over the curb and struggling to wrestle the massive vehicle back onto the road.

“On an open street, they’re going to leave us in the dust.” Bolan reached behind his seat and pulled out a strange-looking device that resembled a handheld flamethrower, only its nozzle was plugged, ending in a metal grid. “And if they get into traffic, who knows how many people they’ll injure or kill before they’re stopped.”

“Hey, hey! Don’t point that thing at our engine, okay?”

“Relax. Try to get closer to them.” Flipping the power switch on the machine, Bolan lowered his window and stuck his upper body out, holding the device in both hands. The SUV surged underneath him, but the low-rider was slowly pulling away. The soldier would have only one shot before they were out of range. He snugged the weapon into his shoulder, aimed and depressed the triggering button.

The device made no noise, but he felt it vibrate in his hands as it released its invisible energy. Ahead, the gang car’s engine suddenly died, and the vehicle immediately began to slow. The vatos cursed and screamed at the driver, who yelled back at them in frustration.

Bolan leaned back inside and tossed the device into the backseat, pulling his Beretta 93R pistol out from under his seat. “Damn, that thing is handy. Stony Man ought to license it to the cops to stop speeders.”

“Yeah, and it also just fried their cells, so they can’t call for help. Who knew EMP could be so useful.” James had produced his own pistol, a matte-black SIG Sauer P229. “Um, how are we gonna catch all these guys?”

“We’ll have to round them up the old-fashioned way....” Bolan trailed off as he felt a warm circle of metal press into the back of his neck hard, pushing his head forward. He froze, his pistol now a useless lump of plastic and metal.

“All right, cara de mierda, move just an inch and I’ll splatter your brains all over this car. Hand me your gun, slowly, and your friend’s gonna stop by my homies’ car, comprende?”

James had also frozen at hearing Araña’s voice coming from the back of the Escalade. “Where the hell’d he come from?”

Bolan had wondered that exact same thing, but had already come up with the answer. Despite having an assault rifle jammed into his neck, his voice was calm. “Damn, you’re one clever son of a bitch. I thought the federales got you back there. You climbed into the back of our ride, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, pendejo!” The AUG rifle’s muzzle quivered on his skin, and Bolan thought he was about to buy it right there. “I don’t know who you guys are. Real gun dealers would have split like anyone else when the po-pos showed. You guys did me a favor by driving me out of here, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna return it. Now hand over those fucking guns right now—” Bolan felt his head being shoved forward even farther “—you first, then the driver. Slowly.”

Bolan considered trying to flip his pistol and shoot the vato, but the angle was all wrong, and a miss would only result in his quick and painful death. Besides, even if he did hit the gangbanger, the guy might pull the rifle’s trigger by reflex, causing the same undesired

result. He spun the Beretta on his index finger and offered it to the man butt-first. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw James raise an eyebrow in an unspoken question, and he shook his head slightly.

Not yet.

Snatching the pistol, Araña jammed it into Bolan’s neck and set the rifle down. “Since you trashed my boys’ wheels, we’re just gonna take these, and the guns, and the money. Seeing as how you did me a solid by getting me out of there in one piece, if you’re lucky, you might even live to watch us drive away.”

James had pulled over to the side of the empty road, surrounded by small businesses and manufacturing plants that had either gone belly-up or didn’t have a night shift, since their parking lots were all deserted. Bolan expected the ATF boys to come screaming by, or even for a LAPD helicopter to have seen the commotion and investigate, but that didn’t seem to be the case here. It figured, he thought, when a person really wanted the police, they were nowhere to be found.

The rest of the gang had piled out of their dead car, but they couldn’t see what was happening inside the SUV through the smoked windows. Bolan kept his hands loose, waiting for his opportunity.

“Both of you assholes get out, right now!” For the briefest second, the pressure on his neck lessened, and that was when Bolan moved. Wrenching his head and body to the side, he twisted and grabbed the pistol, forcing it to point at the ceiling.

“Goddamn you—!” Araña tried to push the gun down again, but James rammed a short punch into his cheek that made the punk’s head snap to the side hard enough to bounce off the armored window. His grip slackened, and Bolan twisted the pistol out of his hand, then turned so he was facing backward, his chest protected by the Escalade’s bucket seat back. Even stunned, Araña tried to go for the rifle again, but Bolan ended the disagreement by slamming the butt of his pistol into the thug’s forehead twice. With the second blow, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped over on the seat, unconscious.

Through the windshield, Bolan saw the rest of the gangers slowly approach the SUV, many with pistols drawn, but held at their sides. He grabbed the AUG carbine from the back and checked the load, which was still half full. “Huh, he didn’t spray and pray, I’m impressed. All right, let’s take the rest of these bangers down. Ready?”

James had grabbed Bolan’s pistol, tucking the second under his arm as he reached for the door handle. “Let’s do it.”

The two men exited on their respective sides, guns raised, catching the group by surprise. One guy raised his pistol, but Bolan was faster, and snapped off a shot that took the gunman in the chest and sent him to the ground with a strangled gasp, the pistol skittering away on the asphalt. Standing on the running boards, Bolan and James were protected by the armored doors, giving them both a height advantage and almost complete cover.

“Drop the guns or we drop you! Now!” James repeated the order in Spanish as Bolan swept the muzzle of the assault rifle across the group to reinforce his partner. First one, then the others tossed their pistols away.

“All right, everybody grab some ground,” Bolan ordered. “I’m sure you’ve all been to lockup. You know the drill.”

Bolan and James had just collected all of the pistols, patted down each gang member for other weapons and drugs and zip-tied each when three ATF cars roared up, disgorging agents with their pistols out, all shouting for Bolan and James to raise their hands.

The two men let themselves be frisked, only then letting the other agents know that they were working as undercover FBI agents on this sting. “Which,” Bolan added archly, “you boys almost screwed up royally by charging in when you did.”

The other agents weren’t impressed. “Tell your boss to inform other agencies the next time he’s got people working in the city. In fact, forget that, just tell him to keep his fuckin’ nose out of our business. We’ve been tracking this gang for three months, and you think you can just waltz in and snatch them from under our noses? Nice try, jerkoff. We’re taking the collar on these guys, and you Feebies can kiss my ass.”

James and Bolan complained a bit more about the injustice of the situation; after all, it was good for their cover, since they had been assigned to keep moving up this branch of MS-13 to the national leaders. Now, however, they’d simply have to get the interrogation transcripts from the ATF once they were sent back to headquarters. Although they’d busted up this cell of the gang, their mission wasn’t truly complete, not by a long shot. But after this, the two would have to lie low for a while, until they could reintroduce themselves into the underworld and try to find another way into the gang’s hierarchy.

After exchanging a few more choice insults about the relative efficiency of the ATF and FBI, and extracting a promise to return the crate of rifles that had been left at the buy scene, James and Bolan were finally able to get in their SUV and drive off.

Once they were a dozen miles away, Bolan leaned over and checked their prisoner. Araña lay in the backseat, his hands and feet zip-tied and duct tape covering his mouth, his brown eyes burning with hatred.

“Sorry, amigo, but you have an appointment with some different people who are very interested in what you have to tell them. And don’t even try to spew some kind of macho bullshit at me. By the time they’re done with you, you’ll be telling them the names of the people you beat up when you were a punk-ass kid back home in El Salvador.”

James took a corner, leaning back in his seat as the tension of the mission started to wear off. “What do ya think the ATF boys’ll say when they find out the leader is missing?”

“That he was smarter than his goons and rabbited out of there, found a hole in the perimeter and, if he’s smart, is three states away by now. By the time they figure out the truth of it—if they do—he’ll have vanished off the face of the earth.” Bolan reclined his seat and slouched back, pleased at accomplishing their mission and staying in one piece. For now, it was time to relax and enjoy coming out on top again.

“Hey, find us a drive-through on the way to airport. Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

CHAPTER TWO

Hu Ji Han stood in his elegant office, staring down at the dark, gleaming water of Victoria Harbour that separated Chung Wan, Hong Kong’s central district, and Tsim Sha Tsui, the southernmost point of Kowloon Peninsula on the Chinese mainland. The neon glitter from the skyscrapers all around him reflected off the black seawater, turning what should have been a placid, still stretch into a riot of flashing blues and reds and yellows, signs exhorting those that saw them to buy, consume, spend—live for today in hedonistic, self-indulgent pleasure, with little thought of what the next day might bring.

Fifty-three stories above the ground, ensconced in the Cheung Kong Center, the artfully designed skyscraper built on the grounds of the former Hilton Hotel and Beaconsfield House, Hu stared out at the monuments to capitalism and business surrounding him. He gazed down at the crowded streets of the city that existed like a cancerous growth on an otherwise healthy living being. He lived and worked deep in the pulsing, constantly beating heart of the beast every day, surrounded by its excess, its shallow, tawdry pleasures, the souls of his countrymen adrift in a sea of overindulgent products, drowning in consumption for its own sake. Hu accepted this portion of his fate, living within this cesspool, studying it, surviving it while avoiding being drawn in by its proffered pleasures.

Even after forty years, sometimes he was surprised to find the hate still burning so strongly within him.

To the rest of the world, he was a successful businessman, respected and admired for creating a company that filled a void in the region, that of recovery and restoration after natural disasters. From his small, one-man office twenty-three years ago, the firm of Life and Property Recovery, Incorporated, now had offices all over Southeast Asia and the world, and was branching out into urban development and infrastructure planning and construction. Hu’s cost-effective solutions to humanitarian crises had made him a lauded figure throughout the region. One entire wall of his office was covered with various awards and photos of him being feted and commemorated by various groups and people, including two sitting presidents of the United States. Those meetings had galled him most of all, bowing and smiling at the haughty Americans, all of whom still strutted around as though they were the only superpower in the world, doing what they pleased, heedless of what others thought.