A large slip cut into the dock allowed boats to be floated onto a sling. They were then lifted from the water and placed on a metal frame. The forklifts then carried them into the building for secure, long-term storage. The building was on the channel, but directly across the street the landscape was brown and ragged. A few stunted oaks and some marsh brush dotted the sandy plain, but nothing else. Pike knew Ballona Creek was somewhere on the other side, but a rise in the land blocked his view.

Jakovich said, “I sent them all home. We have the place to ourselves.”

Cole said, “You own it?”

“Of course.”

Jakovich unlocked the door and entered the building. Two of his men followed, but the others stayed by their cars.

Pike stopped at the door.

“You should have your men come in with us. They’ll attract attention out there.”

“There is no attention to attract, and who cares? I own it. I have every right to be here.”

The lights slowly flickered to life. The ceiling was almost three stories high, and supported by parallel steel girders. A thin frame of more girders was built onto the long walls, each facing the other. They reminded Pike of the Hollywood Squares, like a tic-tac-toe board set on its side. Most of the squares were now filled with yachts, a row on the floor with a second row above.

Jakovich and his two watchdogs set off the length of the building. Cole and Pike followed, with two more guards behind them. Cole glanced at Pike, arching his eyebrows to send a message. If Darko and Walsh followed their signal to the end of the marina, a caravan of vehicles would appear.

Cole ran his hand through his hair, palming the bug. He broke it, then flicked the tiny pieces away. Pike did the same.

A metal storage container the size of a two-axle truck sat in a bay at the far end of the building. It was just sitting there, secured by a single lock. Jakovich removed the lock and pushed open the door. It scraped the concrete floor with a high squeal.

Jakovich said, “There.”

Wooden crates stamped with Chinese characters filled the container. Pike knew from their size each crate would contain ten rifles. Three hundred crates. Jakovich mumbled something, and one of his goons pulled out a crate. It hit the floor with a bang that cracked the wood. Each rifle weighed about nine pounds. Ninety pounds. Three hundred crates, twenty-seven thousand pounds.

Jakovich toed the crate.

“You want to inspect, you better get started. You gonna be here f orever.”

Pike opened the crate. Cardboard boxes matching Jon’s box were packed inside. Pike tore open the cardboard and slid out the rifle in its plastic wrapper.

“Forget it. We don’t need to inspect.”

“You like my rifles?”

“Yes.”