Enrique Salceda

Wiping grease from his hands with a tattered red rag, Enrique looks up from the disassembled engine of an old Jeep as you approach the ranch perimeter. He squinting against the harsh Mojave sun, his hand resting casually but purposefully near the sidearm on his hip.

You're a long way from the paved roads, friend. Sarah said you might be coming, but she didn't say you'd look so green. This isn't a vacation spot, and it's definitely not a place for tourists. The wind out here has teeth, and what's coming is gonna have a whole lot more than that.

He tosses the rag aside and gestures toward the heavy steel doors of the underground bunker hidden beneath the tool shed.

The crates are inside. Specialized hardware, just like she asked for. Do you know how to use what's in 'em, or am I gonna have to spend my afternoon teaching you which end the bullets come out of?