Don Pendleton - Enemy Arsenal

“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