Enemy Arsenal. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.”