Weapons

by Matt Rogers

  And that was it.

  He drifted into Dogpatch as the sky brightened, and his heart beat steady against his chest wall. Not fast — hard. He could feel the pressure in his throat, in his chest, in his shoulders. What would ordinarily be mistaken for a heart attack, he recognised as stress chemicals releasing into his system, honing his acuity, leaving him in fight or flight mode.

  And he’d never chosen flight in his life.

  He had all the information he needed. The target was a warehouse by the waterfront, left dormant for nearly a year as the owner searched for new tenants to lease to. Interest had been sparse, and the property hadn’t even been on the market for the last couple of months. It was three storeys of industrial space, and there was a fifteen foot gap on each side of the target building separating it from its neighbours, which were equally giant warehouses in turn. That left all sorts of room for twisting metal fire escape stairs up each side of the building.

  There were ten ways in and out through the fire stairs, and cramped claustrophobic alleyways all around it, and endless roller doors on the ground floor to accelerate a bulletproof vehicle out of if they were sprung.

  So King understood why it had to be him.

  If the Army went in all guns blazing, many of the targets would escape.

  And when most of them had been radicalised, that was an issue.

  He figured he’d take advantage of the fire stairs to enter the premises. From there, it’d be a dark, decrepit close-quarters skirmish.

  His specialty.

  He parked several hundred feet from the address, in the heart of a grim industrial estate perhaps four streets over. There was a semi-trailer parked out on the street, and he coasted to a halt behind it. He shut off the headlights and the interior light when he killed the engine, and was left sitting quietly in the pale dawn light.

  He bowed his head to the wheel, and felt the cool touch of leather on his forehead.

  He breathed in, and out.

  Here we go.

  An unknown number of hostiles.

  All highly motivated.

  All armed to the teeth.

  Some with a history of psychotic mental illness.

  All of them wanted nothing more than to cause maximum carnage at the morning’s festivities. Perhaps they’d even get a handsome bonus if the kill count was triple digits. It made King sick to his stomach, and he used that as fuel. He visualised kids torn limb from limb, babies blown from their mother’s arms by bullets, parents killed in front of their children, innocents massacred at random.

  Defenceless.

  Unable to resist.

  King got out of the car with his breath steaming in the cold morning air, and hot anger flooding his veins.

  This was how he worked best.

  But he kept it contained. He wiped his face of any emotion, went to the back seats of the Toyota and took out the faded hard hat and tattered high-visibility vest. He let his features droop, coating them in fatigue and exhaustion. He let his face grow slack. He invented the persona of a tradesman worn down by daily manual labour at the docks, and he embodied that role.

  In his ear, a small concealed earpiece squawked to life.

  Violetta said, ‘Go.’

  He set off in the direction of the warehouse.

  78

  Slater had his own rented sedan, worth no more than ten grand optimistically, and he used it to coast further downtown — out of San Francisco’s city limits and toward coastal western San Mateo County.

  His task was straightforward. He wasn’t up against the volatility that King and Ruby would have to deal with — his issue was the sheer number of hostiles. Violetta had shown him surveillance photos that had captured an overwhelming influx of camper vans around the trailheads leading down to the Rancho Corral de Tierra wildlands. The government wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except for the fact that facial recognition technology had scored two hits on a couple of Mexicans in one of the vans. They’d been leaving their vehicle as the surveillance car rolled past, and it had confirmed they were José Luis and Miguel Ángel — the Gómez brothers.

  Slater knew all too well about the reputation of the Gómez brothers, and, frankly, he was shocked they’d show their face over the border.

  They were two of the Sinaloa cartel’s best sicarios, but they weren’t exclusive. They were independent contractors who sold their services to the highest bidder. Together they were unofficially linked to close to a thousand deaths in Mexico, leaving a trail of disembowelled, decapitated, defiled bodies in their wake. They killed men, women and children with equal detachment.

  And every piece of intel the United States government had collected on them showed that they ate, drank and breathed money.

  So it was no wonder the Chinese hardliners had got their hands on them.

  The Gómez brothers would mobilise all their underlings in a heartbeat to slaughter Americans in droves if it meant a few extra pesos in the bank.

  Slater drove into the woods. The trees swallowed him up, masking the sunrise from view. He was left speeding through the muted shadows in search of the trailheads Violetta had pinpointed on a map the previous evening. She’d fed the coordinates to his smartphone, and that’s what he was going off.

  He could already feel the anger swelling in his chest.

  In that regard, he and King were cut from the same cloth. Well, truth be told, they were the same cloth, but what linked them inextricably was their mutual hatred for anyone who put money over human decency. And it was a common theme in most of their enemies — the unending fight for profits. It was the clearest sign of a sociopath, and it was a trait shared by nearly everyone they came up against.

  The Gómez brothers were simply the most clear-cut example of that principle.

  He couldn’t wait to get his hands on them.

  The road rose into the hills, and Slater kept both hands on the wheel. He was equipped with the same arsenal as King — Glock, Ka-Bar, lightweight bulletproof vest, and spare magazines. But he was dressed from head to toe in hiking apparel — a North Face windbreaker, black hiking pants and Scarpa boots. He’d shoved a woollen beanie over his bald scalp to complete the outfit.

  At first glance, he was a big, muscular exercise freak, ready to hit the trails for a long day of hiking.

  And he could act the part when required.

  He wasn’t as talented as Ruby, but he’d manage.

  His GPS shrieked at him to turn right, and he steeled himself for what was to come.

  This would be the first obstacle — a wide gravel parking lot cut into the roadside woods, which led to a pair of smaller unpaved tracks that were traversable by vehicle. Those two trails in turn led to a couple of lesser known clearings overlooking the Rancho Corral de Tierra wildlands. It was perfect cover before the trees fell away, replaced by scrub and barren plains.

  Perfect cover for the cartel to stockpile their sicarios in camper vans.

  It was estimated that there were twenty or thirty hitmen from Sinaloa, Tijuana, Juárez and Guadalajara spread out across the vans.

  It was a damn good disguise. If a random sweep of San Mateo County hadn’t turned up with the Gómez brothers caught in the act, the encampment never would have been found.

  Which posed the question — are there more that we’ve missed?

  Slater tuned that out. There was no use worrying about it — it would only drag him down into nihilism. What if he fought his heart out to neutralise this encampment, and hundreds were massacred in the streets all the same?

  But Violetta had been confident.

  ‘We’ve never conducted a surveillance operation of this magnitude,’ she’d said. ‘The amount of resources we were able to mobilise in a single day has been staggering. We’re confident it’s just the three locations.’

  It better be, Slater thought. You don’t have a fourth operative here in San Francisco. Scachi’s boys would have to handle it.

  He rounded a crest in the trail, and the gravel
lot opened out in front of him, surrounded by thick clusters of trees. Pilarcitos Creek lay a mile or so to the north, but there was no sign of it. The trees boxed them in, dense and oppressive.

  Ahead there were some camper vans — two large RVs that probably cost a few hundred thousand dollars apiece. They were beat-down and faded and the paint was chipping, but Slater took one look at the vans and realised their age had been artificially manufactured. The Gómez brothers had probably picked them up brand-new on the way, so they were able to fit six or seven men in each. They’d beaten the shit out of their exteriors to make them look unimpressive. An expensive operation, but the cartel had money to blow, especially if they were making obscene sums from the Chinese hardliners.

  Slater pulled his sedan into the parking lot, and stopped alongside the twin behemoths.

  He couldn’t see inside the RVs.

  The windows were tinted to the maximum.

  But he knew he was being watched.

  In his ear, Slater heard Violetta say, ‘Go.’

  Plastering disinterest over his face, he got out and stretched his arms and legs. He spun in a slow half-circle, savouring the scenery.

  Then he waltzed right over to the closest RV and knocked sharply on the door.

  79

  Ruby swept her hair back over one shoulder and did her best to wobble in her oversized Balenciaga shoes.

  She was dressed in nearly five grand worth of designer clothes. Gucci over-the-shoulder purse, Off-White black fleece lounge pants, Dolce & Gabbana leather jacket, and a sequinned tube top. She had her lipstick smeared to one side and patchy mascara under her eyes.

  She stood out.

  And that was the intention.

  The tube top exposed her supple midriff and pushed her breasts up so they were firm and perky. She made sure the leather jacket was practically dangling off her shoulders, revealing her body. There was a combat knife in the oversized lounge pants and a Glock strapped to her thigh — the zips on either side of the pants gave easy access to either of the weapons.

  She was your typical trust fund brat who spent her days posting her high-roller lifestyle on Facebook and Instagram for the world to see.

  But she’d made sure she looked gorgeous in the process.

  Because the plan had to go off without a hitch.

  The makeup had taken an hour to get right, and Violetta had taken no chances, carting in a Hollywood makeup artist who happened to be vacationing in San Fran for the festival. She’d signed a hundred NDAs and spent the time accentuating Ruby’s amber eyes, highlighting her supple lips, and at the same time adding the impression that she’d spent all night at a club and was stumbling home in the early hours of the morning.

  She was in downtown San Francisco, far outside the city centre, trawling through one of the last remaining rough patches in the gentrified city limits. She sauntered to the end of the street and saw the clubhouse halfway down, lying dormant in the dawn light.

  A sign above the porch read: Junkyard Dogs MC.

  Appealing, she thought.

  She lingered on the street corner until she saw activity in front of the clubhouse. The front doors opened and a grizzled fifty-something guy with a grey beard and thin receding hair swept back off his forehead stumbled out. He had a gut the size of a keg, and he wouldn’t do much harm in a firefight. But he was one of the hardline gangsters in the Junkyard Dogs who’d agreed to house the hired guns for the entirety of their time in California.

  He knew exactly what they were doing here.

  He was scum in human form.

  Ruby set off instantly, making a beeline for the sidewalk in front of the clubhouse. When she reached it, she stumbled past, flashing her trademark devilish grin at the biker.

  He returned the smile, exposing yellowing gums.

  Momentarily distracted from the tension of the morning.

  Because everyone in that clubhouse knew what was at stake that day.

  He needed some sort of distraction from it.

  ‘Big night, honey?’ the guy said, leering.

  Ruby could pick up on a million subtleties in the inflection of his voice. He floated the question out there in a playful manner, never expecting to receive a serious response. His mind was elsewhere — this was the big day, after all — and he’d probably been turned down catcalling a thousand times in the past. It had become something half-hearted now, something he didn’t expect to receive anything from, except for a dark look and a quickened pace.

  But when she wanted to, Ruby could play a bad girl.

  She could play anything.

  The Lynx program had taught her that.

  She flashed something tantalising in her eyes. As if she was contemplating … this. She said, ‘Very big.’

  ‘Ain’t got no man takin’ you home?’

  She shook her head. ‘Lost my friends.’

  ‘I could be your friend.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Maybe next time, big boy.’

  He liked that.

  He said, ‘Why next time?’

  She kept walking, but she slowed her pace. She reached out and touched a finger to the nearest fence pole and used it to playfully twist into a pirouette. Then she ran a hand down her stomach, smoothing her abs.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ she said. ‘Stranger danger, y’know?’

  ‘I’m a nice guy.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘My name’s Phil. What’s yours?’

  ‘I’m Natasha.’

  ‘Natasha… I like that.’

  ‘I’m fucking wired,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay out. I want to party.’

  ‘Party with me, maybe.’

  Still said in jest. Like he didn’t believe it would work.

  Ruby said, ‘I’ve been warned off guys like you.’

  ‘I don’t bite, honey.’

  She looked at him, shedding all niceties. She said, ‘What if I like guys that bite?’

  He smiled, exposing the same yellow maw, and the dynamic changed. There was a sudden look in his eyes. A switch had flipped in his brain — something primal rising up, something that hadn’t been activated in a long time. Because he wasn’t exactly the most appealing package on the dating scene, but now there was some small part of his brain going, Wait — could you pull this off? Is she serious?

  She realised she’d have to put in some work to make him less suspicious.

  Because never in a million years would someone like her go willingly with someone like him.

  So she said, ‘You’re lucky I’m horny. Had a real big guy with me at the club. Then I lost him. He would have made me so happy.’

  She rolled her eyes and turned away. She started off down the sidewalk again.

  He shouted, ‘Hey!’

  She looked back.

  Then she kept walking.

  He came down off the porch and moved through the overgrown weeds in the unkempt lawn and pulled up right in front of her.

  She reached out and ran a finger down his leather vest, and slurred, ‘Yurr cyoot.’

  ‘What was that, honey?’

  ‘I said you’re cute.’

  ‘Ain’t get called that often.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you it now.’

  ‘Why you telling me it?’

  ‘Because I’m horny,’ she said. ‘I told you that. Bet you got something big for me down there. Maybe I’m tempted.’

  ‘You should be tempted.’

  ‘You’d have to convince me.’

  ‘What do I gotta do?’

  ‘Tell me what you’re packin’.’

  ‘Something big, honey. You said it yourself.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Let me show you.’

  She took another step forward and said, ‘You really got something special down there, I’ll give you the ride of your life.’

  She stepped back and pouted and looked at him through unfocused eyes.

  Tempting him.

  Entici
ng him.

  Sending the blood rushing down there.

  Because when that happened, all bets were off the table. Men did unbelievably idiotic things if they were promised the ultimate reward.

  Most things in life are done for sex, Ruby thought.

  She’d killed her fair share of corrupt businessmen back when she was employed using similar tactics.

  He looked back at the clubhouse, and she could see a million thoughts running through his head. It would be a violation of the privacy the guests had demanded. It would be stupid. Moronic. Unfathomable. If he had any common sense, he’d shoo her away.

  Because either right now, or within the hour, a force of hired ex-Army mercenaries who hated their country and everything it stood for would be gearing up to massacre civilians for a few extra digits in the bank. And if there were witnesses to that who hadn’t been paid off, then they’d need to be neutralised. But the biker would also be coming up with every excuse his primitive brain could muster.

  I’ve got my own room in the clubhouse. Maybe no-one’s up yet. I could sneak her in, and sneak her out. When else am I gonna get this fuckin’ opportunity again? When do these trust fund Instagram models even look at me? Am I about to give up this ultimate fantasy?

  He wasn’t.

  He said, ‘Why don’t you come in and I’ll show you, honey? I’ll take care of ya. I’ll rock your world.’

  Ruby forced herself to smile.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘I’m already wet. I need you inside me.’

  That tipped him over the edge.

  He took her by the hand and led her toward the clubhouse.

  80

  King knew he was being watched.

  He could sense it.

  He stepped into the street, with the bay on one side, barely visible through the warehouses lining the waterfront, and another industrial zone on the other. There was little activity this early in the morning. Shifts wouldn’t start for another hour or so. But he spotted a handful of drab, dreary labourers shuffling down the sidewalks, some slinging duffel bags over their shoulders, some carrying equipment and tools.