“Suits me.”
Wyatt stopped at the gate and waited as it was opened. He then pulled into the center of the compound. “Wait here. Let me suss it out.”
“Sure.”
Wyatt opened the door and climbed out, hyperaware of his Glock pressing into the small of his back. His fingers were twitching to whip it out and flash it around just to let the Mexicans know he was deadly serious about their deal. He had a knife shoved into his boot too, but that was just for backup.
“You made it just in time,” Arturo said, stepping forward and adjusting the wide-brimmed hat he wore. “Was about to give it to the second-highest bidder.”
“Like you have one,” Wyatt said, glancing at the surly bikers flanking Arturo.
Arturo gave a twisted smile. “Where’s the money?”
“Where’s the goods?” Wyatt batted at two flies buzzing around his face.
“In here.” Arturo pointed at the red container. It hadMAERSKwritten on the side, and the paint was peeling.
Wyatt didn’t move. “So bring it out.” There wasn’t a chance in hell he was going into a container.
Arturo hesitated, then, “Conseguir las armas.”
A flurry of movement came as five men went to the container.
Taff hopped out of the van, moved to the back, and opened the creaky doors. He jumped in, and there was the sound of scraping as he moved boxes of oranges around.
“Show me the money,” Arturo said with a curt nod.
“In good time. Load us up.”
“You push your fucking luck,” Goatee said, stepping up beside Arturo. He had a fresh wound on his cheek that appeared to have been crudely stitched. “Every damn time … you push.”
“We haven’t seen the guns yet. They could be a rusty pile of shit.”
“They are real deal.” Goatee kind of growled. “And we should have sold for more.”
“But you didn’t.” Taff appeared. He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s take a look.”
A pale wooden crate was set before him, and a Mexican used a crowbar to peel off the lid. A flurry of straw burst out as Wyatt dug his hands in up to the elbows.
He withdrew a brand-new AK47, the barrel gleaming in the midday sun. It was worth a small fortune.
“Holy mother of God,” Wyatt muttered, eyeing it as he plunged in and tugged out a pump-action shotgun.
Wyatt’s cast his attention briefly over the weapon then reached for another. This time, a brand-new pistol.
“You see,” Arturo said. “They are good, no?”
“They’re good,” Wyatt said. “Open the other boxes.”
“You no trust?” a Mexican with a skull tattoo on his neck asked with a frown.
“No, we no trust,” Wyatt said. “Open them all if you want us to pay for them all.”
Goatee spat on the ground, mumbled something in Spanish, then walked away.
Arturo watched him go, then nodded at the three unopened crates. “Abrelos.”
Wyatt’s heart was racing as he pulled out quality weapon after quality weapon. Where the fuck the Mexicans had found such decent cargo he had no idea, but the Barbarians had gotten it for a good price. Hudson and Rigor would be as happy as a dog with two tails.