The Collectors

Death / Rode the six hundred.” He paused and looked up ahead where the real-life drama was unfolding with attack dogs and armed men, and his backbone began to bend ominously. The rest of his courage faded as he reflected on the fact that the damn Light Brigade had been wiped out.

He snapped, “Tennyson didn’t know shit about real danger!”

Caleb climbed out of the car and made his way hesitantly toward the fence.

Back outside, Stone and Reuben headed toward the truck.

Stone said, “Keep a lookout while I check.” He scampered up in the bed of the truck; it had an open back, with wooden slats all around to keep the cargo in. He used his light to see the painted labels on the cylinders. All but one read “Halon 1301.” The other’s label read “FM-200.” Stone pulled from his jacket pocket a small can of turpentine and a rag that he’d taken from the storage building, and started applying turpentine over the cylinder with the label FM-200.

“Come on, come on,” Reuben said, his gaze darting in all directions.

As the coat of paint started to dissolve, Stone stopped rubbing and shone his light on the label that had been painted over. He rubbed some more until it was finally revealed. “CO₂,” he read. “Five thousand ppm.”

“Oh, hell!” Reuben hissed. “Run for it, Oliver.”

Stone looked over the side of the truck. The canine was just stepping out of the security cruiser near the front gate.

Stone jumped down, and keeping the truck between them and the cruiser, they hustled toward the fence. However, the truck could not hide their scent from the dog. Stone and Reuben heard it howl, and then they could hear the four legs headed their way, followed by the two guards.

Stone and Reuben sprang onto the fence and started climbing. The dog reached them and sank its teeth into Reuben’s pant leg.

Outside the gate, Caleb watched helplessly from a hiding place, uncertain of what to do but trying to screw up his courage to attempt some action.

“Hold it right there,” a voice called out. Reuben was trying to kick his leg free, but the dog was holding on tight. Stone looked down and saw the two guards, their guns pointed at them.

“Come down from there, or the dog’ll take your leg off,” a guard snapped. “Now!”

Stone and Reuben slowly climbed down. The same guard called off the dog. It retreated a bit, its teeth still bared.

“I think this is all a simple misunderstanding,” Stone began.

“Right, tell it to the cops,” the other guard snarled.

“We’ll take over from here, boys,” a woman’s voice called out.

They all looked over. Standing outside the gate beside her black sedan was Annabelle. Milton stood next to her, wearing a blue windbreaker and a ball cap with “FBI” stenciled on it.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the guards said.

“FBI Agents McCallister and Dupree.” She held up her creds and opened her jacket so they could see her badge and also the gun on her belt holster. “Open the gate and keep the damn doggie off us,” she snapped.

“What the hell is the FBI doing around here?” the same guard said nervously as he ran over to the gate and unlocked it.

Annabelle and Milton stepped through. She said to Milton, “Read ’em their rights and cuff ’em.” Milton took out two pairs of handcuffs and headed over to Stone and Reuben.

“Wait a minute,” the other guard said. “We catch anybody trespassing, our orders are to call the police.”

Annabelle got in the plump young man’s face, looking him up and down. “How long have you been in, uh, security, kid?”

“Thirteen months. I’m weapons-certified,” he said defiantly.

“Sure you are. But put your damn gun away before you accidentally shoot somebody, like me.” He reluctantly holstered his weapon as Annabelle held up her creds again. “This trumps the local cops every time, okay?” The realistic-looking credentials, which were part of a packet she’d had Freddy make for her just in case, were what Annabelle kept in her tampon box.

The guard swallowed nervously. “But we got procedures.” He pointed at Stone and Reuben, whom Milton was handcuffing. On the back of Milton’s windbreaker was also stenciled “FBI.” They’d gotten that at the novelty shop along with their fake guns, badges and handcuffs. “And they were trespassing.”

Annabelle laughed. “Trespassing!” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you even know who you’ve got here? Do you?”

The guards glanced at each other. “Two old bums?” one of them answered.

“Hey, you little son of a bitch,” a handcuffed Reuben roared in mock fury, and jumped forward. Milton instantly drew his pistol and placed it against the side of Reuben’s head, shouting, “Shut the hell up, lard-ass, before I blow your damn head off.”

Reuben immediately froze.

Annabelle said, “The big ‘pleasant’ guy over there is Randall Weathers, wanted on four counts of drug dealing, money laundering, two charges of murder in the first and the bombing of a federal judge’s home in Georgia. The other guy is Paul Mason, aka Peter Dawson, among sixteen other phony names. This asshole’s got a direct line to a Middle East terrorist cell operating in the shadow of the Capitol. We’ve been running a wiretap on his cell phone and e-mail. We picked up his trail tonight and followed it right here. Looks like they were doing a recon to steal some explosive gas. We think they were targeting the Supreme Court this time. Park a truck of that stuff in front with a timer and watch all nine justices get blown right to hell.” She looked over at Stone and Reuben in disgust. “You