We pulled the Ryder rental truck into to the poorly lit parking lot. A single street light illuminated the far corner of the parking lot which was approximately 200 feet square. The three other lights in the corners appeared to have been shot out at some point in time. The concrete bases for the parking lot lights remained, but the poles and the wiring were either removed or stolen at some point in time. Considering the neighborhood, my guess was they’d been stolen.

“Looks like the place, huh Slice?” Otis said as he slowed the van to a five mile an hour roll.

“Yeah, at least there’s only one truck. I wonder where they’re going to put these motherfuckers?” I asked as I attempted to focus on the truck positioned under the lamp post.

Thankfully, they had parked under the light. Regardless of who they were, it made me feel more comfortable they had good intentions. Otis had a .45 caliber Colt 1911 in a holster under his left armpit, and I carried a Glock .45 caliber. Luckily, the weather had cooled almost twenty-five degrees from the previous week, and the jackets we wore to conceal the guns didn’t look out of place. I didn’t expect they would anticipate us doing a gun deal for sixty grand without being armed, but out of what little respect I had for these guys, concealing the firearms was a small show of faith.

Avery sat quietly between Otis and me, and stared straight ahead. As we rolled alongside the truck, it was obvious two men in what appeared to be their late twenties or early thirties were seated inside. Both were clearly Mexicans.

“Remember, stand on my left, so I can hear you alright. I can’t hear that well out of my right ear. Let me try and do this deal, and if they don’t speak as good as we need them to, I’ll just tell you what to tell them, and you tell me what they say in response. Understood?” I asked.

She hadn’t said three words on the entire forty-minute trip from Winfield to the north side of Wichita. Now, truly in the middle of bean town, we were in a parking lot a mile from any other real civilization. Without a doubt, they had chosen this location due to the lack of vehicular traffic and the lack of law enforcement patrol. Cops really didn’t come to this part of town unless they were called.

“Understood,” she responded.

“You alright?” I asked.

She clutched her purse with her right hand, and responded. “I’m good.”

“Showtime,” Otis said as he put the van into park.

As Otis opened the door and stepped out, I did the same. The two men stepped out of the truck, and the driver smiled, revealing a gold tooth. Both men appeared to be unarmed, dressed in wife beaters and what seemed to be freshly pressed khaki pants. The driver had a number thirteen tattooed on his left temple. The passenger had a large MS-13 tattooed on his neck, across his Adam’s apple. Incapable of being able to deny any gang affiliation, they were both were covered in what seemed to be either prison tats or something one of their members did in the garage.

“Jew must be Otis and Slice. They call me Chapas and theeese is Gato. Who’s the girl?” the driver asked in a thick accent.

Well, fuck. Seems you speak English just fine.

“She’s my interpreter. El Palõn said you didn’t speak English very well,” I nodded.

“He don’t speak English for sheet. I work in this sheet-hole seety. I don’t have no choices,” he said as he tossed his head toward the passenger.

The passenger stood stone faced and stared.

Avery stepped to my left side and stood quietly. I inhaled a shallow breath through my nose, surveyed the lot for any movement, and opened my arms in a gesture toward the driver.

“Well, we’ve got your inventory in the van. Ten crates of ten. They’re packaged for movement without any damage. It’s sixty grand even, best price you’ll find on the street. Let’s do this deal before anyone decides to come up here and see what we’re doing. So, we good?” I asked.

The driver nodded his head once and whispered to the other man. The passenger turned and walked to the truck, opened the door, and removed a small Mexican blanket rolled into a rectangular bundle. I watched intently as he unfolded the blanket and pointed at bills which appeared to be wrapped in cellophane.

I nodded my head. 

He folded the blanket over the money and handed it to Otis.

“So, jew fuckers cold, or just wearing your coats to hide your pistolas?” The driver pointed to my waist and chuckled.

“You want me to answer that?” I asked.

“No, eets all good,” he said with a nod.

“Pull jore truck around to my truck and we’ll unload these fuckers,” he said as he nodded toward the van.

“Otis, back that fucker up to his tailgate, make it tight. We’ll slide those fuckers in there and get the fuck out of here,” I said.

“Got it, Slice,” Otis responded.

I gripped Avery’s upper arm and guided her to the side. Otis started the van and slowly maneuvered it within a few feet of the rear of the truck. After the driver lowered the tailgate of the truck, I guided Otis back until the back of the van and the truck were almost touching. I unlocked the sliding door of the van and slid it upward.

The driver slapped his hand against the bed of the truck. The passenger jumped inside like he’d been trained. I laughed to myself as I made a mental note that he must have been the Mexican equivalent to a Prospect.

“You want to open one of these?” I asked as I motioned to the crates.

“No eets all good. El Pelón says jore homie Corndog is good people. If El Pelón is good, I’m good. Jore not going to fuck us eenyway,” he said.

“We’re in the gun business. I sold these fuckers cheap to build a relationship with your boss. Hopefully, we’ll do more business,” I said as I hoisted myself into the rear of the truck.

I pointed beside the Mexican’s truck. “Just stand at the front of the truck and smile, Avery. We’ll be done in a minute.”

She smiled and nodded her head without speaking. I was surprised at her demeanor. She didn’t appear to be nervous, nor was she overly talkative. The thought of having an outsider in the middle of this deal made me initially feel uncomfortable. The fact she was a woman made me even more uneasy as the day approached. But now that we were almost done with it, I was pleasantly surprised at her ability to remain quiet, not be annoying, and stay out of the way.

“Otis get back here and help me,” I grunted as I slid a crate toward the rear of the van.

As Otis peered inside, I explained. “I’ll slide ‘em to the back of the van, you slide ‘em to him. He can have his partner pull ‘em into the bed of the truck.”

“Got it, Slice,” Otis said as he jumped into the van.

We unloaded nine of the crates. Surprisingly, they all fit in the back of the truck. As I reached for the last wooden box and began to pull it to the rear of the van, I heard a vehicle. It was tough to tell from inside the van, but the exhaust was loud, and it was accelerating rapidly. For a moment I considered it may be on the adjacent road that led to the parking lot, but I didn’t need to speak Spanish to know the jabber from the two Mexicans in the back of the truck wasn’t one of joy.

“Fuck!” Otis said as he reached the back of the van.

Standing at the front of the dark van with my face covered in sweat, I couldn’t see shit. I hustled to the rear of the van to get a glimpse of what was going on, and my vision became perfectly clear. A completely different Mexican was pointing what appeared to be a Street Sweeper shotgun into the back of the van.

He began screaming shit at us in Spanish.

“Don’t move, Otis. This beaner’s got a fucking Street Sweeper. That cocksucker will cut us in two if he starts shootin’,” I said sternly as I raised my hands slowly.

This was a fucking set-up.

Without responding, Otis took two steps toward the rear of the van and raised his hands to his sides. The Mexican continued to scream.

Obviously you have no fucking idea who you’re fucking with, do you boy?