The Bulldog’s packed to the gunwales with the "heavies" from both Team A and Team B. That’s ten gang-bangers including Bart, who bulks enough for two. Everybody’s wearing whatever armor they’ve got and bristling with assorted offensive weaponry, with all of us jammed into a windowless box designed for eight. A couple of the younger gangers are talking quietly, carrying on a tough-chill conversation to prove to each other, themselves, and anybody else who cares that they’re cool as ice and smooth as silk. But the more experienced soldiers know. We can smell the tension, a kind of low-grade funk that you never really forget. Some of Team A are checking their weapons again. Paco, my lieutenant on this one, is toying with one of the grenades hanging from his bandolier—a nervous habit that doesn’t make me feel any better. Bart seems to be asleep.