Don Pendleton - Enemy Arsenal

“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.