We reach the security booth. A rack of servers with their array of blinking lights stands on one wall, encased in glass. I open the case, reach my arm inside behind the bank of servers—which give off an incredible amount of heat—and hunt aroundwith my fingers. After a moment, I find what I'm looking for: a small button, slightly concave, along the back left corner near the top. I press it, and something clicks, something else hisses, and then I step away as the entire case rotates away from me, revealing a recessed space about the size of a telephone booth. It is lined on three walls with racks of weapons and ammunition: assault rifles, submachine guns, pistols, and shotguns, with boxes of ammo for each and empty magazines, as well as pre-loaded mags.
"Now we're talking," Lorenzo says, his face lit up like a kid at Christmas…or so I imagine. I've never experienced such a thing as anyone would consider a "normal" Christmas.
"Jakob and I are the only ones who know this is here," I tell him. "None of the guys know."
"Why not?"
I stare at him. "They're operators. They'd be up here all the time wanting to get out the guns."
He snickers. "Oh. True."
He selects an HK416 and I do the same, stuffing our pockets with magazines for those and our sidearms; I grab three more and a spare mag to go with them, and then I close the case once more. I snag several radios as well, and we head back down to the common room. I select the channel we use in the club and key the radio. "Toro, Taj, Fonz. This is Inez. Come in, over."
Toro's voice crackles across the line. "Go for Toro."
"Tangos inbound," I say. "Converge on the common room in the Arrow quarters ASAP."
I get three affirmatives and a couple minutes later, Toro, Taj, and Fonz emerge from the stairs. They take in the women, wide-eyed, and then Lorenzo and I—loaded down with rifles, pockets bulging with magazines.
Toro is a somewhat unlikely looking fellow: he looks like a cartoon caricature of a strongman, with a chest as thick andshoulders as broad as Chance's, or nearly so, tapering down to a hard, lean waist, creating an upside-down triangle of a torso. He is not tall, but he is mammoth—Lash's build but with twenty-five pounds more muscle. His jet-black hair is slicked into an elaborate pompadour, and he wears a neat, precisely trimmed Van Dyke goatee. He is very vain, but his operator resume is spotless and impressive: four years with the Spanish Army's GOE, their version of Green Berets, and then four years with a classified black ops team operating primarily within UN peacekeeping parameters. He doesn't know it yet, but he's on the very short list of successors who will make up the second phase of Jakob's Broken Arrows plan.
Beside him is Taj, an Indian national with ten years in the Indian Army's Para SF unit—an elite airborne unit. He is quite tall—taller than the Cabot boys but not as tall as Rev—clean cut and clean-shaven, with glossy black hair and a quiet, reserved manner. Only Jakob knows his history.
Fonz resembles his nickname's sake, the character from the old showHappy Days. His outgoing, charming, class-clown persona hides a deep internal darkness stemming from both his childhood and his years with LAPD SWAT's D Platoon. Even though he's not technically military, he's seen as much if not more action than some of the Arrows, as the D Platoon in particular ran hundreds of operations every year, and Fonz was the type to volunteer for every mission he could.
I pass around the rifles and magazines. "Today, gentlemen, is your baptism by fire into the order of the Broken Arrows." I meet each pair of eyes in turn. "This is our home." I gesture at the women. "This is our family. Need I say more?"
"No, Señora, you do not," Toro says in his booming, Spanish-accented voice. "I believe I am speaking for my brothers Taj and Fonz when I say we are prepared to fight unto the death for this home and la familia.Sí, mis hermanos?"
Taj nods once, thumping his fist into his chest.
Fonz grins, winks at the ladies. "Never fear, the Fonz is here."
Toro rolls his eyes. "You are an idiot."
"Eyyy, you're just pissy cuz you couldn't charm water out of a fountain, big boy." He passes his hand over his carefully coiffed hair.
I clear my throat. "Not the time for witty banter, gentlemen. Our enemy is at the gates. Toro, Taj, take the roof and pick them off. Fonz, you guard this room and these women. Lorenzo and I will do the rest. Ladies, it's best if you lock yourselves in the gym. It's bullet- and blast-proof, and locks from the inside."
"We can help," Annika says. "None of us are exactly fainting daisies anymore."
"No, you certainly are not. But you are the targets of this operation. They seek to use you as bait to capture and kill your men—ourmen. You are all strong, capable women. You are survivors. But you do not have the training the rest of us do. I don't know how many enemy combatants we are facing, but it is a certainty that we are outnumbered. You will be safest in there."
Terra looks at the gym, and then at me. "I don't know how much I like the idea of sitting in there on my fat ass while the rest of you risk your lives for ours."
"That is the path we have chosen for ourselves, Miss Terra," Taj says, his voice low and quiet and gentle, with the same lilting accent as Anjalee.
"Facts, babe," Fonz says. "It's what we do. It's who the fuck we are."
"I agree with my comrades," Toro says.
"Enough talk," I cut in. "Positions."
Toro and Taj head for the stairs, clipping radios to waistbands and threading earpieces under their shirts.
Fonz guides the women to the gym and waits while they lock themselves in, and then takes up a position with his back to the door, where he can monitor the stairs and the exit to the outside.
Lorenzo and I head for the exit, emerging squinting into the blinding sun and blazing Vegas heat.
