Javier Carpio sat in a deserted warehouse in Chelsea. It was made of corrugated steel, without even the pretense of insulation, and the wind seemed to blow through it as though there were no walls at all. There was a kerosene heater that was lit, but kept low, so the temperature hovered just a few degrees above freezing—still some thirty degrees above the outdoor temperature.

There were five men with him. They were El Salvadoran, and while they’d all worked with MS-13, they were not associated with T’phong Soh. Nor did they truly owe their allegiance to the organization; the only loyalty they felt was to each other. They had fought together in the wars that plagued El Salvador long before MS-13 came into being. They had tattoos, but they were less prominent, and they contained imagery that only they truly understood. They stood behind him, spread out in a semi-circle, staring at the table set up in the center of the warehouse.

The nattily dressed man with the blond dye-job had been good to his word. Before them, two FIM-92 Stinger shoulder launchers were laid out on the table. He hadn’t shown up himself; he’d sent four of his muscle-bound, heavily armed clotheshorses to make the delivery. It was clear that he wanted as little as possible to do with whatever Javier was planning. Javier couldn’t blame him; few would want to have any association with what was to come. The boats would be delivered later. He’d assured Javier of that.

Javier rose from the only chair in the warehouse and turned to face the men he’d bled with for more than three decades. “You know my brother,” he said.

The men bowed their heads and murmured their unquestioning respect.

“You are the only men I trust. Only you understand what he went through—what we went through when our mothers and sisters and wives were killed. T’phong Soh is a capable leader, but we cannot fully trust him with this. I do not know whether he would be willing to use such weapons in his own harbor where he hopes to rule after we are finished. And so we must do what must be done.”

“As always,” one of Javier’s comrades said.

“As always,” Javier agreed.

“Are you committed?” Javier asked.

“You are our brother,” another man answered. “That means that your brother is our brother.”

“And if more Americans die,” another man said, “all the better.”

There was a murmur of agreement among the men.

It was enough, Javier knew. Men like this would never break their bond with him. Now, the real work would begin.