Which was exactly the way Orozco and Grimaldi wanted it. The gasoline was used almost exclusively as a trade good, and then only sparingly, with virtually none of it going to the building’s own activities. As a result, after five years of gradually drawing down the supply the tank was probably still half full.
Orozco had every intention of making sure that it was Moldering Lost Ashes—and only Moldering Lost Ashes—that finally drew down the last drop.
Unlike some of the beasts of burden Orozco had dealt with over the years, this particular burro had no problem letting itself be led into the cramped tunnel beyond the disguised entryway. Orozco kept a firm hand on the animal’s lead, alert to any sign that it might suddenly bolt. They reached the door, Star slipped inside, and two minutes later Orozco was carefully filling Nguyen’s canisters from the tap they’d drilled into the gasoline tank.
The tap had been specifically designed for low flow in order to minimize the chance of spillage, and drawing the promised ten gallons took over fifteen minutes. Orozco made sure the tap was securely closed, reset the backup safety system that would hopefully prevent a catastrophic spill if the tap’s seals somehow failed, then led the way out of the chamber back to the tunnel.
Star closed the door back down to its usual crack, reset the two-by-fours, and rejoined them.
Turning the burro around would have been difficult, so Orozco opted instead to leave via one of the decoy tunnels. It brought them back to street level a block from where they’d entered; getting his bearings, Orozco turned them back toward home.
They still had two blocks to go when a pair of gaunt and filthy teenaged boys suddenly appeared from broken doorways on opposite sides of the street five meters ahead.
“Freeze or bleed,” one of them ordered, hefting a long-barreled revolver in both hands and pointing it at Orozco’s chest.
Orozco felt his stomach tighten. Neither of the kids was a local, or at least not a local he recognized. Was this the vanguard of the gang Nguyen and his people had spotted on their way in?
“Take it easy,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure we can make a deal.”
“Well, would ya look at that?” another voice came from the right. Orozco turned, to see six more youths file out of a long ganghouse shack that seemed to be built mostly from cracked pieces of drywall. The boy in front was gripping an even bigger revolver than the sentry, the others sporting knives or clubs made from pieces of broken rebar. “We’ve hit the jackpot tonight, kiddies,” the teen with the revolver went on. He pointed the gun at the burro. “We got dinner—” he shifted his aim to Orozco’s holstered Beretta—“we got more guns—”
He leveled the gun at Star.
“And we even got ourselves some entertainment.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Never panic.
Orozco’s frequently repeated warning echoed through Kyle’s mind as the six teens spread out into a loose semicircle and started toward the three of them. Never, ever panic.
But it was very hard not to. He and Orozco had guns of their own, but they were still holstered at their sides. The teens’ two guns were already out and aimed.
“Take it easy,” Orozco called again. “There’s no need for trouble.”
“Maybe we like trouble,” the leader retorted. He had pulled a couple of paces ahead of the rest of his pack, his revolver pointed at Orozco’s stomach as he strode toward his victims.
“Maybe so, but I’ll bet your buddies would rather have goodies than broken bones,” Orozco countered, reaching behind him to give Kyle a gentle but imperative push backward and a little to the right.
Star plucked at Kyle’s sleeve.
“Not now,” Kyle muttered, trying desperately to come up with a plan. If he took a long step to his right, the direction Orozco had just nudged him, he would end up with the burro between him and the main group of teens.
That might at least give him a chance to draw his Colt and even the odds a little.
But no, that wouldn’t work. Even though the burro might block shots coming from that direction, Kyle would still be exposed to the kid with the revolver standing down the street.
Unless Orozco was planning to block that line of fire with his own body. Was that what the little push had meant? Was Kyle supposed to duck into shelter, and try to take down as many of the attackers as he could before one of them got Orozco? Or him? Or Star?
There was another tug at Kyle’s arm, even more insistent than the first.
“What?” Kyle bit out, glaring at her.
Her eyes met his evenly, her hands tracing out a single word. Empty.
Kyle frowned. Empty? What was that supposed to—?
And then he got it, and his eyes lifted from Star to the gun pointed at them from down the street.
To the gun, and the faint hints of light he could see peeking coyly through the revolver’s cylinder.
The gun was empty.
Kyle looked back at the gang leader, still bearing down on Orozco. Was his gun empty, too? The kid was holding it low, pointed at Orozco’s waist instead of his chest or head, too low for Kyle to see if its cylinder was also empty.
But it almost didn’t matter. The minute the boy reached them and got his hands on either Orozco’s Beretta or Kyle’s Colt, he would have a loaded gun. If Kyle was going to do something, he had to do it right now.
The kid was nearly there, his free hand reaching toward Orozco’s holster. Setting his teeth, Kyle took a quick step to his right, ducked down behind the burro’s side, and yanked out his Colt.
“Freeze!” he ordered.
The gang leader’s head snapped toward Kyle, his eyes burning with surprise and rage, his gun swiveling toward this sudden new threat. As he did so, Orozco took half a step forward.
And in a haze of motion that Kyle never did completely figure out, the gang leader was spun 180
degrees around, his gun hand yanked up behind his back with the revolver pointed harmlessly down the street, and Orozco’s left arm snaking its way around the kid’s neck to press tightly against his throat.
“Like my friend says,” Orozco said. “Freeze.”
“Let him go!” the gunman down the street snarled, jabbing his empty revolver threateningly toward Orozco as he and his friend unglued themselves from their positions and charged toward the would-be victims.
There was a sudden muffled crack from the direction of the gang leader’s twisted arm. The kid cried out in pain, and his revolver thudded onto the broken pavement. An instant later, Orozco had released the kid’s wrist, drawn his Beretta, and had his arm crooked around the front of the leader’s face with the gun pointed toward the two incoming teens.
“We only say freeze twice,” he warned quietly.
The boys came to a sudden halt.
“Join the group,” Orozco invited them, twitching the Beretta’s muzzle toward the five who were still spread out in front of him. “Put the gun on the ground first.”
Silently, the two teens complied. Orozco’s Beretta followed them the whole way over to the rest of the pack, and now there were seven sets of hate-filled glares washing at Kyle over the muzzle of his Colt.
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Orozco said into the brittle silence. “You’re going to put down your weapons— all of them—and you’re going to walk away. And you’re not going to come back.
Ever.”
The leader began cursing. Orozco tightened his grip slightly around the other’s neck, and the swearing abruptly stopped.