“The kid has to be alive,” Jonathan said. “He’s got the information they want.”
“Unless the Ruskies got to him first. He’s got the information they want to keep quiet. And as for the Chechens, the second the kid opens his mouth and gives them what they want, he’s toast.”
Jonathan waved him off. “No, now that’s not true, either. Not right away, anyway. They’ll want to buy some time to make sure that what he gave them is actually the code.”
Boxers laughed. “Oh, good. Even better. So terrorists will wait to confirm that they have nuclear capability and then kill our PC. Yeah, good. Now I feel better. So tell me this: Why keep the girl alive?”
Jonathan sighed. “That’s a tougher one,” he said. “I’ll only give even money on her. Maybe not even that much. Whatever it is, they drove her all the way out here for a reason. Maybe it’s just to get rid of the body, but it’s a reason. There’s also a reason why Graham wasn’t killed with those others. That tells me that his snatchers are of the Chechen variety, not the Russian variety.”
“Well, there you go,” Boxers said. “Case solved.”
They cruised for another two hundred feet. The first factory, first of several in a row, showed no signs of life. As they approached the next, Boxers pointed at a spot beyond the windshield. “Hey, Boss,” he said. “Trouble at twelve o’clock level.”
Jonathan pivoted his head to the right to see a clutch of young men approaching them in the dark. They were all black, and they all walked with attitude. He cursed himself for being so involved with his survey of the area that he missed the obvious.
“I see weapons,” Jonathan said. The young toughs were not even making an effort to conceal their firepower. Among the six of them, Jonathan recognized two MAC-10s and at least four pistols.
Next to him, Boxers drew his M9 and cocked the hammer. “I’m ready,” he said. “I’ll take the three on the left.”
“Not yet,” Jonathan said. “Only if they fire first.”
“Shit,” Boxers spat. “You know, if they fire first, they might just hit something, right?”
“This isn’t the fight we want,” Jonathan said.
“I am not dying at the hands of some untrained gangbanger. I’ve lived through too much shit to die that way.”
Over the years, Jonathan had listened to Boxers describe countless venues in which he intended not to die. On balance, that was a good thing. “You know, if you took up less space you’d be a smaller target,” he said.
“Then you’ve got no chance of ever bein’ hit, little man. No wonder you feel cocky.”
Jonathan flipped him off. “I’m going to meet them halfway,” he said. “You stay put. If they shoot me, take out the MAC-10s first.”
“Machine guns first,” Boxers parroted. “Really? Wow, I never would have thought of that. I normally aim for the guy with the slingshot first, but if—”
Jonathan tuned him out and opened his door. He drew his Colt, but he kept it dangling by his thigh. If any of them so much as twitched, he could drop three of them before his first ejected shell casing hit the ground, but that would still leave three, and those odds sucked.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Jonathan said. He modulated his voice to be just loud enough to be heard, but not so loud as to draw attention from anyone who might live in the neighborhood. He rocked his NVGs up out of the way, but kept them on his head in hopes of looking different enough to give the young men pause before doing something stupid.
The young people Jonathan had dealt with in any detail were all athletic, they all had short haircuts, and they all wore the same clothes. He knew that he was ill-prepared to deal with a bunch of teenage gangstas whose pants hung halfway down their asses.
“Who the hell are you?” one of the young men asked. He walked in the lead, so Jonathan assumed him to be the leader.
“I’m just a guy who wants no trouble from you,” Jonathan said.
“Then you shouldn’t be driving in my ’hood without lights on.”
All things considered, it was a good point.
One of the kids behind the leader and off to the left made a move to lift his pistol to a shooting position. Jonathan reached out with his free hand in a stopping gesture. “Please keep your firearm pointed at the ground,” he said. The urgency in his voice drove his volume to a higher level than he wanted.
His comment prompted the leader to turn back to his crew. “Georgie,” he said. “Be cool.”
Georgie went cool, but he took his own time doing it, finally shifting the muzzle of his pistol to a neutral position pointing to the ground.
“Thank you,” Jonathan said. He shifted his own weapon around his back to his left hand, extended his right hand toward the leader and approached. Cautiously. “My name’s Scorpion,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Screw you,” the leader said.
“Nice to meet you, Screw You,” Jonathan said without dropping a beat. “Is that Chinese?”
Jonathan waited for the line to land. When they laughed, his hand remained extended. “Don’t leave me hanging here,” Jonathan said. “I mean no disrespect.”
The leader modified the handshake to a knuckle-knock, and Jonathan complied.
“The hell kind of name is Scorpion?”
Jonathan smiled. “It’s a kind of street name.”
“You tryin’ to be all scary and shit, right?” The kid laughed. “And what’s that shit on your head?”
“I’m still waiting on a name,” Jonathan said.
“And I’m still waiting for you to get the hell outta my ’hood.”
This was a tough point in their negotiation. The kid needed to save face in front of his pals, and at one level, Jonathan did owe him an explanation. He was, after all, in the kids’ ’hood, just as they said.
Jonathan made a point of holstering his Colt, but he kept the safety off, just in case. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “My friend and I have business to conduct here.” Without looking back, he called, “Hey, Big Guy.”
The driver’s door of the Expedition opened, and Boxers unfolded himself. “Right here, Boss.” Maybe just for show, but probably for effect, he brandished an HK417 rifle, muzzle pointed to the sky. Chambered in 7.62 millimeter, the rifle looked every bit as badass as it was. If it came to a firefight, these guys would be dead before their fingers touched their triggers.
“Holy shit,” the leader said. Several of his friends took an instinctive step backward. “He’s one tall drink of water.”
Jonathan laughed. He hadn’t heard that phrase in years. “Yes, he is,” he said.
“So, what are you? Cops or something?”
To bluff or not to bluff? “Well, we’re something,” Jonathan said. “But we’re definitely not cops.”
“You look like cops,” the kid said.
“They look like the Army,” another kid said. “What’s with the commando clothes?”
Jonathan and Boxers both wore black on black on black. “I’m still waiting on a name,” Jonathan said. “There’s no need for us to be adversaries.”
“There’s no need for us to be adversaries,” the leader repeated in a pretty spot-on impersonation of Jonathan’s voice. “Shit, man, you’re like a robot. So which is it, army or cops?”
“We have no desire to get into your business so long as you stay out of ours.”
Georgie said, “Far as I’m concerned, you got no business here for us to stay out of. This is our turf, not yours.”
Jonathan was tiring of the banter. They had work to do, and these guys were a problem. They jeopardized the overall security of the mission — whatever the hell that turned out to be — and they posed an overt threat through their firearms and their attitudes. Under different circumstances — say, they were on foreign ground — the smart move would be to eliminate the lot of them just to keep them from posing a threat to Jonathan’s six o’clock once they started moving.