Gun Work

The implication was that an army of incognito luchadors stood ready to rush the walls in a beefy, unstoppable wave.

“Give me a day, camarado. I promise I won’t leave you out. But, and this is muy importante, how many days for the money?”

“Dos dias mas.”

“All right, two more days. Tell Flecha that if he speaks to the secuestradores, to tell them he has the money, whatever amount it is. That he will make the drop exactly as instructed.”

“But he doesn’t have the money yet.”

“By tomorrow, amigo, they’ll have bigger problems than hurting Almirante — that’s my promise, too.”

“You are going to fight these culos? Not without me, not without Flecha and Medico Odio and—”

“Calmasé,” said Barney. “You’re not going to be left out.”

El Atrocidad struggled with this for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, “Your word, that is enough.”

“My word. On mi vida. You keep your cellphone by you at all times.”

A modification to Barney’s plan had presented itself, and it solved a lot of problems. He had no desire to put these good men in harm’s way, but the resolution struck him with such clarity that it seemed perfectly, immediately, obviously important.

They were able to purchase outright a blue paneled van with a cracked windshield and most of the tread still on the tires, from a nephew of El Atrocidad’s who had managed to keep himself blissfully uninvolved with killers or kidnappers. The van stayed nicely low-profile in the Pantera Roja’s conveniently conceived security carport.

It fell to Barney to explain to his companions that they now had a complication... and a clock.

They switched their tourist duds for job clothes — loose, but not enough to snag; dark, but not so dark as to prevent ID by a friendly. Under their garments, Armand’s special body armor covered them in two pieces from mid-thigh to upper arm, about T-shirt length. Without the side zippers, donning them would have been like trying to squeegee into wet rubber.

Everybody paused to marvel at the bullet scars on Barney’s torso, which Barney endured with something like resigned tolerance. He drew the line at letting Karlov measure them.

“I didn’t know you wore jewelry,” said Armand, pointing at the polished agate nestled tight to Barney’s collarbone by a leather thong.

“Not jewelry,” returned Barney, his hand moving reflexively to touch the stone Mano had given him.

Karlov tossed Barney a pair of gloves — Blackwater Armor Skins tacticals with Kevlar, re-sewn to Barney’s hand dimensions and modified to keep his trigger fingers free.

“Just in case you start leaking again,” Karlov said.

They all wore ATAC Storm SWAT boots, nightshade cargo pants and zippered “511”-style response jackets. Each was kitted out with a fixed-blade knife and MagLite in addition to their chosen weaponry. The guns had been cleaned and checked, then checked again, then field stripped and checked, before being re-checked. Four to five mags maximum for the semi-autos — an overload of weight made it impossible to sustain an aggressive operational tempo, by encumbering maneuverability and causing fatigue.

Sirius had suggested handcuffs in case they needed to incapacitate anyone in transit; these were snug in scabbards and would bounce no light. Sirius was also the man who carefully polished each cartridge and loaded each mag wearing surgical gloves to prevent ejected brass from providing fingerprints.

Any item not mission-essential was dumped. You don’t carry spare change into a hot zone because the jingle might give you away. Ditto keys and what the pros called “mental comfort items.” They had Nomex watch caps which could be pulled down into ski-masks if needed.

Barney had driven the route in his stolen BMW more than a year ago, but nothing had changed. They hit the building at two in the morning...

... not that the atmosphere of deadly carnival was any different at that time of day in this hellhole, which defied the lockstep concept of business hours.

“That’s where Carl went in,” Barney said, indicating the iron speakeasy door recessed into a dark entryway.

“How about the roof?” said Sirius.

“No idea.”

“Give me the case.”

Armand handed over a Halliburton knock-off they had doctored back at the Pantera Roja — stacks of trimmed rag paper with bona fide $100 bands, and a genuine bill on top of each. Barney thumb-checked his SIG .40, his batter-up gun, to ensure chambered brass.

They scattered from the van so as not to cross the street in a group. There was a small traffic island to get past, not to mention assorted panhandlers, hucksters and prostitutes eager to triangulate on a non-Hispanic face. Barney was first in, all business as he rapped on the metal-sheeted door.

A glowering monster peeked out with cloudy, mud-colored lizard eyes. Barney said nothing and exhibited the case.

“Mostramé,” said a clotted voice.

Barney displayed the money in the case, careful not to expose it to street view. “¡Apúrate!” he said. Hurry up.