Chapter 11 PDA #2
"So, here we all are. This is the endgame, ladies and gentlemen.
Intel suggests both Pugli and Mercado are here in LA.
There's a shipment of arms somewhere in this port that is tied to Mercado, and the fact that the authorities can't seem to find it suggests that Pugli is using his influence and wealth to make sure no one is looking.
We need to use every contact, every favor and marker, every resource we can all leverage to pinpoint the time and location for the Pugli and Rafael meeting.
Whatever they're planning, we can assume it isn't good, and is likely directed at us and the man who employs us all. "
Fonz lifts a hand. "I know some people who might be able to help. Let me make a few calls." He hesitates. "They ain't exactly workin' on the right side of things. Just so you know. The intel would be solid, though."
Solomon answers for me. "We aren't the police, and we aren't interested in due process or evidence or any of that shit, Fonz. I don't give a fuck if these dudes are serial killers. If they know where this meet is, or if they can find out, I'll deliver a dump truck full of cash to their door."
"Can I quote you on the dump truck full of cash?" Fonz asks. "Because these guys? Money talks real fuckin' loud."
I answer for Solomon, now. "If their intel proves solid and leads us to the meet and the deaths of our enemies, I will personally pay them a hundred thousand dollars each."
Fonz nods. "That'll do it."
"Just…make sure they know the cash only happens if the intel proves out and they don't double-cross us."
Solomon chips in, here. "And Fonz, make it crystal fucking clear that we aren't playing by the rules either. We're not cops. If they even think about double-crossing us, they'll die slow, painful deaths."
Fonz nods, digging his phone out of his pocket. "No problemo. Be back." He swagger-limps away, scrolling through contacts in his phone.
A few minutes later, Fonz returns grinning.
"My contacts have heard some chatter. They're gonna look into it and get back to me.
These two are seriously connected in the criminal underworld of LA, so if anyone can get a bead on what's going on, it's them.
And better yet, Pugli and this Rafael-Mercado cat throwin' their weight around like this?
It's makin' some people pretty damn unhappy.
LA is all kinds'a carved up, know what I mean?
Everybody's got their turf, and no one really wants out-an'-out war, so they tend to color inside the established lines, for the most part.
These two dickbags show up with a container full of guns stolen from the US Army, push around local authorities, get ATF sniffin' around everyone else's shit? No one likes that kind of attention."
“Your point, Fonz?" I ask.
"My point is that the folks I know in the game want to see Mercado and Pugli eliminated, or at least taken off the board here in LA. So they're willing to play with us if it means shit goes back to normal."
"Excellent." I think for a few minutes. "Sol, Scarlett, Lash—do some recon in the Port while we wait for further intel. Sol, did your contact give you an idea where the container is located?"
Sol shakes his head. "No, but I can find out."
"Do it, and check it out. But be careful—we know all too well that these guys aren't playing games."
"On it." Sol paces away, phone already to his ear.
He returns a couple minutes later. "I've got a location for the container.
The most recent satellite imagery shows multiple contacts in the area, heavily armed, forming a perimeter around the area.
We'll have to proceed with extreme caution, but I think we can put eyes on it and, see who's who and what's what. "
"It is of the utmost importance that you're not spotted," I say. “We don't want to tip our hand that we're here or that we know what's happening."
Solomon grins. "They didn't call me Wind Walker for nothing, you know."
Fonz happens to have a deck of cards with him, for reasons unknown, and a game of poker—played for bullets—ensues. Those not playing sit and talk, nap in the back of the vehicles, or merely lounge idly while we wait for the scouting party to return.
Three hours pass before Sol, Scarlett, and Lash return.
Sol gives the report. "We counted a dozen tangos armed with long guns.
They've set up trip-wire alarms and motion sensors at every ingress point, as well.
Whatever they're hiding in there, be it guns or Rafael himself, they're damned serious about keeping people out.
They never opened the container, so we've got no clue what’s inside.
My feeling, however, is that it's not just a load of guns in that container.
You wouldn't post twenty-four-hour armed guards with laser trip wires and motion sensors for that.
They know damn well that at least the ATF knows the container is there, so if they were worried about it being taken back, they'd move it.
The container being there, specifically, is important, for some reason. "
"Ambush for us?" Chance asks.
Sol shrugs. "Maybe. But as far as we know, they don't know we're here.
And for this crew, a dozen shitheads with M16s is barely an ambush, and doesn't pose much of a threat to us.
Five of you successfully defended the Club against forty.
They know we outclass them so their only hope of succeeding against us is sheer numerical superiority. A dozen tangos ain't that."
"It is my feeling that Rafael is hiding in that container," Lash says. "Pugli would have to come to him, which fits with Rafael's sense of superiority. It also fits with his paranoia."
"I agree," Scarlett says. "The container is positioned in the middle of a stack, with containers on all sides.
It would be a fairly simple matter to create a connection between the surrounding containers.
With the right ventilation and some creativity, you could make a small living space for one person.
Or, if not a living space, somewhere Rafael can hide in relative comfort with zero possibility of being spotted by anyone. "
"That is something Rafa would do," I say. "So now we need to nail down the time of the meet, and whether it's in that container."
"Too bad we can't get thermal on that container," Sol muses. He glances at Fonz. "You don't happen to have a line on a helo with thermal capabilities, do you?"
Fonz tilts his head to the side and eyes the sky. "Maybe? Putting an LAPD chopper in the sky is a bit of a bigger ask than getting some lowlife thugs to spill the beans on a rival's activity."
"Chopper," Kane says, snorting. "A chopper is a motorcycle, buddy."
"A chopper is a motorcycle, buddy," Fonz mocks in a mocking, wheedling, whining tone. "Fuck you, meathead. You know what the fuck I meant."
"Fuck me?" Kane growls. "Fuck you. I'll turn you into a pretzel, needle-dick. A really fuckin' greasy one."
"Gentlemen," I snap. "Your penises are both massive, I'm sure. We don't need to measure them at this time, however, so please, attempt to rein in your egos."
Scarlett snorts in an attempt to suppress her laughter, but her snort sets Annika to cackling, and then in short order, everyone is howling…except Fonz and Kane.
"You’ve got jokes, Inez," Saxon says, grinning devilishly. "You must'a gotten some." I stare him down until he looks away, squirming. “You’re not ready to take jokes yet, I see. Got it."
Lash raises a hand. "During our joint operation with Alpha One Security, I acquired a rather exceptional military-grade sniper rifle with thermal imaging capabilities.
It was a gift from their sniper, Anslem See.
I've not had a chance to use it, yet, and this is a perfect opportunity.
I can monitor the container from a safe distance, and hopefully confirm whether or not there is a heat signature in the container.
The rest of you can position yourselves to assault the container when I spot movement, and then I can provide sniper support. "
"I like it," Sol says, nodding. "Inez?"
"It's as good a plan as any. An LAPD helicopter circling the area isn't exactly the height of stealth, anyway, even if Fonz could arrange it."
Fonz lifts his phone. "Messaged my buddy who's a pilot for the department and he says no-can-do. Off-book flight operations are a strict no-go. And yeah, it'd certainly let our friends know someone is watching them, which we don't want."
"That's the plan, then," I say. "Lash, get your new toy and find a spot. Girls, we're gonna need to find you somewhere less visible to wait it out. And we'll need someone to stay and guard them."
Fonz lifts his hand. "Got it, Boss-lady. I ain't gonna be able to keep up with you guys with this hole in my ass cheek." He jerks his head at the warehouse outside of which we've posted up. "There's bound to be a nice defensible position in there, somewhere. I'll take a gander."
"Excellent," I say. "Let’s go over our equipment and prepare for action while Lash and Fonz get into position. This could very well be a case of hurry up and wait, however."
Rev, silent up till now, chuckles. "We're all ex-military, Boss-lady. We're used to hurry up and wait."
Lash comms us that he is in position. At the same time, Fonz hobbles back out.
"Found a good spot," he says. "One of those dinky little warehouse offices up on a catwalk. One entrance, so it's defensible, but there's an emergency exit right below it in case we gotta scram-a-lam lickity-split."
Silas frowns at Fonz. "Do you ever speak normal English, or do you have a disability?"
Fonz flips him off. "It's called having a personality, jackass, you should try it sometime. Having you around is like having a pet tree. You've got all the chutzpa of a fencepost."
“Ohhh snap, brother," Saxon says, cackling. "You gonna take that burn?"
"From a Muppet?" Silas responds. "Yes. He's the most unserious person I've ever met. "