“An invoice for two thousand ghost guns?” Poulton asked. “From a manufacturer?”
“Yes.” I nodded.
“Which one?”
“We never found out,” I said. “But Richie heard they could turn the order in a week. A single requisition of that quantity… it could only be fulfilled that quickly by certain sized companies.”
Poulton sat back, considering the credibility of what he was hearing in the same way that I had when Richie first told me.
In the last few years, the laws concerning firearm parts had shifted. At stake was the definition of what was considered a gun, versus a gun part. Was a frame or receiver that was 80 percent pre-built a gun? Or simply a gun part? If there were no holes drilled yet for the trigger or hammer pin but instructions online directed a buyer how to do it, was that a gun?
The ATF said yes. To them, it was a way to corner bad actorsin the industry. To force rogue part manufacturers into the light asgunmakers.
And if you were a gunmaker, there were rules to follow. Serial numbers to be placed on weapons. Background checks to be run on anyone buying your PMFs.
Since the law had changed, the ATF had already raided smaller part-makers. But the idea that a major weapons manufacturer might be in on the production of these kits was a bombshell.
That these silent killers were being made for a domestic militia group? That would convene Congress.
“Two thousand buy-build-shoot kits?” Poulton leaned forward. “Made by one of the big five? Why didn’t this find its way into your report?”
“We don’t know if itisone of the big five,” I said. “And it would have been in my report. This week. But we never heard back from Freddie.”
Then I repeated the line that Freddie had heard Sandoval use:
Kill a cop. Drop the gun. And walk away.
“Jesus,” Poulton said. “We have to bring in ATF. Tell them about this.”
“That’s a bad idea.”
Poulton pursed his lips. “Well, I’m full of them.” He glared at me. “Why?”
I explained that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives was too close to these manufacturers. “We have no idea yet which gun company it is,” I said. “Or if it is, in fact, one of the big five. If someone tips them off now, we’ll have nothing.”
“Let me get this straight,” Poulton said. “You were following a shipment of guns, but you lost track of them. Then you heard something shocking only your C.I. could verify, but you lost track ofhim.And when you finally found the guy, you burned up his body and any evidence in his trailer?”
The summary was accurate, so I nodded. “Yes.”
“So next week, we could be dealing with a shooting at some elementary school? Innocent kids dead. And the shooter might have used one of the unmarked guns your informant was tracking?”
“Yes.”
“And we’ll have nothing on where it came from? No serial number? No seller? Just a bunch of dead kids?”
I swallowed, not answering this time.
“Camden,” he said. “Do you haveanyleads on a new C.I.?”
“The team is working on it.”
Poulton sat back, his frustration unmasked. “Forty-eight hours,” he said. “Find a new C.I.—I don’t care how. And get me an answer on these ghost guns.”
“And if we can’t?” I asked.
“Then I guess PAR is not as valuable as you and I think.”
CHAPTER FOUR
