“I think Ford might have a number of stops to make.”
The assurances Dearborn wanted weren’t mine to give. I gave them anyway in the interest of time. His “friend” was only willing to cooperate if I would agree that he wouldn’t be prosecuted.
“The past couple of weeks,” Dearborn says, “this friend of mine has been filling the order, picking up one piece here, one piece there, buying from private sellers when he can find them and from dealers if he can arrange a straw purchase. This is not my kind of business-you know that. He came to me because he knew I’d been asking around about Ford, after our first conversation. From what he says, it sounds like Ford had several people freelancing for him, putting together a nice little cache of weapons.”
“They’re all M4s?” I ask. Military carbines, basically updated M-16s.
“Far as I know. And Ford was offering good money to make it worth everybody’s time.”
On the drive down I explained to Jeff what I expected of him: basically silence. You’re just along for the ride, I told him, and he agreed. Now he sits there quietly, lips pursed and arms crossed as if to hold himself back from talking.
“So what makes you think Ford has other pickups to make?”
Dearborn leans forward between the seats, blocking the rearview mirror. “Because when he found out the guns weren’t in the shop anymore, that they were sitting down here in a lockup, he wasn’t too happy. Said he was on a tight schedule and didn’t have time to mess around.”
Jeff can’t keep quiet anymore. “Which means when he gets here, he’ll have an arsenal with him, probably some other guys. And you’re gonna take him all by yourself?”
“You’re offering your services?”
“I’m not even packing. But yeah, I’ll pitch in.”
“You don’t sound as gung ho as you did back at the garage.”
“I’ve had time to think.”
Dearborn jabs a finger at Jeff, catching my eye in the mirror. “So this guy’s not a cop? I guess you have, like, a SWAT team or something lined up?”
“Let me worry about that.”
Neither one of them seems satisfied with that, Dearborn because he doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into, and Jeff because, with his military background, he realizes there’s a level of planning required to go up against armed men successfully, not to mention overwhelming force. Trouble is, I’m in no position to call on what resources I have, and even if I were, there may not be time. My plan at the moment is to see what develops and go forward from there, something I don’t intend to share with Jeff or Dearborn, neither of whom would want to hear it anyway. Instead, I resolve to project an attitude of calm-in other words, to bluff my way through.
We pull up across the street from a gated plot of corrugated, subdivided longhouses, with red-painted garage doors granting access to each stall. If Dearborn’s friend had an outer stall, everything would happen out in the open, but instead it’s on the inside. We can watch them drive up and go inside, but whatever happens after that will be invisible.
“How are we gonna play this?” Jeff asks.
I sit and think for a moment. All that matters is that I take Ford into custody. I’m not trying to build a case against him for gunrunning. So the important question is whether he’ll be more vulnerable and off guard inside the facility or out in the parking lot loading his cargo. The answer seems obvious. Once he’s outside, his radar will be switched on. The only way to get the jump on him is to get inside.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” I say, turning in my seat. “Dearborn, I want you to take me in there and introduce me to your friend. Then you can make yourself scarce while I get into the lockup. That’s where I’ll wait for him.”
Jeff is already shaking his head. “And what about me?”
There are lines you cross without realizing, and others you step over deliberately. I pause, knowing I’m on the verge of stepping over and not feeling good about it.
“You. .” I say. “How about overwatch?”
I get out of the car and lead him around to the trunk, conscious of Dearborn watching from the backseat. I pop the lid, obstructing the gun dealer’s vision, then open up the padded case mounted into the trunk that holds my AR-15 carbine.
“You know how to use one of these, obviously.”
He nods.
“And you know when not to? I mean, you’re not going to do anything crazy. If this thing goes pear-shaped, then you do something about it. But not until.”
“I hear you.”
“Am I making a terrible mistake here?” I ask.
He looks me in the eye. “No, you’re not.”
“I can trust you?”
“If you have to ask, it’s too late.”
“All right, then. They’ll have to pull up at the entrance there to load up, so take the keys and maneuver around for a clear field of fire. Ford will go inside himself, and he’ll have at least one man staying with the vehicle to keep an eye on the guns they’ve already picked up. That’s who you need to watch. If Ford comes out and I don’t, then I’ve scrubbed it. Don’t do anything.”
“Check,” he says.
“If the opportunity presents itself, I’ll take him. Otherwise, we’ll let him walk and try to keep an eye on him.”
“I understand,” he says. “Now get in there before he shows up.”
At the far end of the corridor, a gaunt man in Wranglers and a tightly tucked shirt stands with his back turned, one hand pressed against his ear.
“That’s him,” Dearborn says in a stage whisper.
As we approach, the man turns. “Uh-huh,” he’s saying in a cellphone, “that’s fine. Like I said, I’m already here waiting. So long as you brought the money, there ain’t no problem.” He gives us both a nervous once-over, putting a finger over his lips for silence. “Well, I wish you’d hurry up, then. I’m ready to get this done with as much as you are. Fine, I will.”
He ends the call and curses under his breath.
“This is the detective I was telling you about,” Dearborn says, “and we’ve already discussed the conditions. You don’t need to worry about any legal entanglements.”
The man in Wranglers puts his phone away, wipes his hand on his jeans, and offers it to me to shake. “That’s good to hear, because I tell you, this is not what I signed up for. If I’d ha’ known the kind of business Ford was up to, I woulda told him to take a hike.”
As implausible as this sounds, I’m not surprised he feels the need to justify himself. Even with assurances against prosecution, you can never be too careful.
“So he’s on the way?” I ask.
“That’s what he tells me. I done been here a whole hour.”
“And this is your lockup?” I point to the sliding door next to us, with its padlock hanging loose on the hinge.
“This one,” he says, hiking the door up, “and I got another one across the hall there. Inside I got a couple of safes, too. This is more secure than it might look to you.”
To prove the point, he flips the lights on and walks us down a row of black gun safes, lined up like so many filing cabinets. At the back of the unit he’s stored a couple of motorcycles lengthwise, one of them under a tarp and the other bare.
“What’s in there?” I ask, indicating a waist-high old-fashioned icebox against the opposite wall. It looks like a white metal casket, to be honest, the lid secured in the middle with another padlock.
“That’s where they are. They’re in padded cases, packed up real nice, so I couldn’t put them all in the safe.”
“Let’s take a look.”
Wrangler makes a show of checking his watch, only opening up the lid when he realizes I won’t be deterred. Inside, packed five across and two deep, there are ten matching black Cordura cases, the kind that zip around and have pouches on the front for spare magazines. I slide one out and open it up to find a pristine M4 carbine with a collapsable stock and a gaping mag well.
“You have magazines for them?”
“Just the rifles,” he says.
“What about ammunition?”
He shakes his head. “I have some.223 in one of the safes, but he didn’t ask for nothing but the rifles. Mags and ammo you can pick up anywhere.”