In the fourth stall, in the middle of the barn's belly, behind and underneath a few bales and scattered mounds of hay, I found it. Or rather them. First I felt the rough crate wood, and could see the pale gleam of whitish wood in the faint light. I switched on my flashlight. At the instant I did so I heard a sound from the far end of the barn. I shined the light quickly in that direction but saw nothing. Probably a rat, coon, or skunk. I cut the light and waited in the dark ten minutes before going back to the crates. Then I swept the hay off the uppermost one, and turned the light back on. It had a double swirl symbol stenciled on it, and underneath the symbol, stenciled in black paint, the words: MILITARY ARMAMENT
CORPORATION POWDER SPRINGS, GA. U.S.A.
Looking for a place to insert the crowbar, I noticed that someone had already pried the crate open; there was an indentation between the lid and side of the box where a big screwdriver had been inserted. I pried off the lid. Inside the box, which was the size of a small footlocker, were four weapons. They were strange looking, unlike any firearm I'd ever seen before. They were ugly, made of stamped dull metal. They looked like pistols, with big squarish bodies and little teeny barrels sticking out the ends. The grip projected downward from the middle of the pistol body instead of the back end. Also in the box were eight clips (two for each gun) and four big metal tubes about a foot long (longer than the gun bodies). I picked one of these up; it was heavy and solid. Then I saw the thread mount on the end of the tube. that matched the one on the barrel extension on the gun body. I knew what it was then: a silencer. I picked up one of the bodies. Used to fine shotguns and pistols, I couldn't believe how cheaply made it looked. There was no machining whatsoever. It was a rude collection of stamped metal and spot welds. It looked as though you'd find it lat the bottom of a Crackerjack box.
A knurled knob on the top of the body moved backward if I pulled hard on it. There was a big spring in there, but no external locking and safety lugs like those found on automatic pistols. But this didn't look like an automatic pistol. It was, I suspected, a machine-pistol, or submachine gun. And one with a silencer too. `
Son of a bitch.
There were two of these crates. Underneath those were three more crates that were noticeably larger. I saw the familiar logo on the sides: the interfacing triskelion of Colt Industries. I knew that weapon: the Armalite M16, the standard assault rifle of the U.S. Army. Joe and his friends at the State Detective Bureau had told me enough about these to make it clear they were worth a fortune on the black market. And finally, wrapped in a canvas tarp alongside the wall were two bulky objects that were wound, mummy style, in rust-inhibiting paper. I unwrapped one of the bundles enough to peer at it. It was a medium-weight machine gun. The ribbed metal housing over the barrels looked oddly familiar but I didn't know why. I wrapped the big weapon up again and placed it back the way I found it. I re-covered the crates and scattered the hay back over them. Then, my light out and stuffed in my hip pocket, I went over to the ladder.
Two rungs up, a light shone behind me. I blinked my eyes twice to make it go away. Surely they were playing tricks on me. Surely I was dreaming.
But I wasn't. I felt cold against the back of my neck. It was steel, and pressed hard up underneath the big bone in my skull that lies right behind the ear. It was the barrel of a gun.
"Dawn't move," said a husky voice, "dawwn't!"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I didn't. I stared straight ahead at the boards of the old barn wall. They were whitewashed, and I could see the faint dried strokes of the coarse brush that had put on the whitewash, probably about fifty years ago. I didn't move.
"Who are you?" I finally managed.
"Dawn't ask. I'd as soon put a bullet in yer brain now, and who might you be?"
He had a brogue so thick you could cut it with a cold chisel. The sound of County Mayo, or Clare; or whatever, coupled with the weapons I didn't like. And that's when I disobeyed instructions and moved. I moved like all get-out, too, and I'll tell you why: Because I thought I was going to die right then. I thought I was going to get blown away, and all that nicely applied old whitewash was soon to be besotted with glumps of reddish tissue: skin, bone, brains, and ocular fluid, as the strange visitor from County Kerry (or Wicklow, or Donegal, or whatever) blew my head apart so bits and pieces of it would fly out from homebase and affix themselves to the wall. That's why I jumped for it.
And that's why I think people with guns pointed at them try a lot of that "brave" stuff. They aren't brave; they're scared. They're trying to survive. They know they are a finger-pull away from death and it has a tendency to bother them. If I could get free and manage to knock him off balance for a second I could get the Bull-Barrel out from my pocket in a wink. And though I'd never harmed a living thing with it, I knew I could give a gentleman a third nostril at fifty feet. I was very, very good with that little small-bore target pistol.
So I moved.
I flung myself backward off the ladder. From the way he held the pistol and the fact that I had climbed two rungs, I judged myself to be above the gunman by about two feet. As I left the ladder I rolled to my left, and chopped down and back with the cast with all I had. I felt the hand strike something semisolid and the light wavered and flickered crazily around for a second. When I hit the floor I rolled over to get up, my hand already working the pistol from the windbreaker's pocket.
But that was as far as I got.
I felt a huge pressure on my upper chest, just below my Adam's apple. I smelled shoe leather. I felt an iron grip on my right wrist just above the hand. Jesus did it hurt. Then I felt the cold pressure of the pistol barrel, again, on my neck. Only this time it was jamned up under my jaw. The husky voice spoke. It was panting a bit, but pretty level and very mean.
"Now lok," it said, "I'll not kill you if you do what's right. But if you dawn't, yer a dead mahn, heer?"
I nodded.
He grabbed the Ruger pistol and jammed his flashlight up under his right arm and held it shining down on me while he slid out the clip. He flicked the rounds out one by one but very fast. I heard a brief ka-chunk and knew he'd ejected the round in the chamber too. He frisked my other pocket and grabbed the spare clip, which he disarmed as quickly as the first. Then I was amazed as he handed me back gun and both clips. With a swirl of hands and cloth he dropped the rounds into his coat pocket. I heard them rattle as they fell, like a beanbag. I still couldn't see the face. The light beam was right in my eyes and he was behind it.