I’m with a dozen other guys, some sipping coffee, others making introductions over the buzz of an air compressor. The walls, dusty and stained, are lined with shelves of tools. Foldout tables ring the edges of the room, surrounding two orange shop presses. I first lay eyes on them one Saturday morning in the garage of an eggshell-white industrial complex near Los Angeles. The wooden and steel parts I need to build my untraceable AK-47 fit within a slender, 15-by-12-inch cardboard box.
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