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
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.
