The Collectors

Chapter 37

The Nova followed the Fire Control, Inc., truck at a discreet distance. Caleb was driving, Stone next to him and Reuben in the rear.

“Why don’t we just call the police and let them handle it?” Caleb complained.

“And tell them what?” Stone said. “You said the library is having the old system scrapped. For all we know, that’s all those men are doing. And it might alert the wrong people that we’re on to something. We need stealth here, not the cops.”

Caleb snapped, “Terrific! So I have to go in harm’s way instead of the police? What the hell I pay taxes for I’m sure I don’t know.”

The truck turned left and then hung a right. They had passed through the Capitol Hill area and entered a run-down part of town.

“Slow down,” Stone said. “The truck’s stopping.”

Caleb eased the car to the curb. The truck had halted at a chain-link gate that another man inside the complex was now opening.

“It’s the storage facility,” Stone said.

The truck pulled through, and the gate was locked behind it.

“Well, that’s all we can do here,” Caleb said in a relieved tone. “My God, do I need a decaf cappuccino after this nightmare of an evening.”

Stone said, “We need to get inside the fence.”

“Right,” Reuben agreed.

“Are you both insane!” Caleb cried out.

“You can wait in the car, Caleb,” Stone said. “But I have to check out what’s going on in there.”

“But if you get caught?”

“Then we get caught. I think it’s worth it,” Stone replied.

“And I can stay in the car?” Caleb said slowly. “But that doesn’t seem fair if you two are risking—”

Stone cut him off. “If we need to get away quickly, it’s better to have you in the car, ready to roll.”

“Absolutely, Caleb,” Reuben agreed.

“Well, if you say so.” Caleb tightened his grip on the wheel and got a determined look. “I have been known to lay down rubber on occasion.”

Stone and Reuben slipped out of the car and made their way toward the fence. Hiding behind a stack of old boards outside the storage complex, they watched as the truck parked in a corner of the lot. The men climbed off the truck and walked into the main building. A few minutes later the men, wearing their street clothes, drove off in their own cars. A security guard locked the gate behind them and went back into the main building.

“Our best bet is probably to scale the fence on the other side where the truck’s parked,” Reuben said. “That way the truck is between us and the building in case the guard comes back out.”

“Good plan,” Stone said.

They hustled around to the other side of the fence. Before they started climbing, Stone tossed a stick at the fence. “Wanted to make sure it wasn’t electrified.”

“Right.”

They slowly scaled the fence and quietly dropped down on the other side, squatted low and started making their way toward the truck. Halfway there, Stone stopped and motioned for Reuben to drop to his belly. They scanned the area but saw no one. They waited another minute and started moving again. Stone suddenly veered away from the truck toward a small concrete-block building near the rear of the fence. Reuben hurried after him.

The door had a lock, but one of Stone’s keys fit it.

Inside, the place was filled with large cylinders. Stone took out a small flashlight he’d brought with him and shone it around. There was a workbench littered with tools, and a small paint machine in one corner next to some cans of paints and solvent. Hanging on one wall was a portable oxygen tank and mask. Stone flicked his light on some of the cylinders and read off, “FM-200. INERGEN. Halon 1301, CO₂, FE-25.” He stopped and came back to the CO₂ cylinder, studying the markings closely.

Reuben nudged him. “Look,” he said, pointing at a sign on the wall.

“Fire Control, Inc. We know that,” Stone said impatiently.

“Read the name below that.”

Stone sucked in a breath. “Fire Control is a subsidiary of Paradigm, Technologies, Inc.”

“Cornelius Behan’s company,” Reuben muttered.

Caleb sat fidgeting in the Nova, his gaze on the fenced area. “Come on,” he said. “What’s taking so long?”

He suddenly plopped down sideways in his seat. A car passed by him on its way to the storage facility. After it had gone past, he sat back up and his heart nearly skipped a beat. It was a private security cruiser; in the backseat was a large German shepherd.

Caleb pulled out his cell phone to call Stone, but the battery was dead. He was forever forgetting to charge the damn thing because he didn’t like talking on it in the first place.

“Dear God!” Caleb groaned. He took a deep breath. “You can do this, Caleb Shaw. You can do this.” He let out a deep breath, focused and then quoted dramatically from one of his favorite poems to pluck up his courage. “Half a league, half a league, / Half a league onward, / All in the valley of Death / Rode the six hundred. / ‘Forward, the Light Brigade! / Charge for the guns!’ he said: / Into the valley of 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 guys are going down all the way this time. All the way,” she added ominously.

“Damn, Earl,” one of the guards said excitedly to his partner. “Terrorists!”

Annabelle took out a notebook. “Let me get your names. The Bureau will want to know who to give commendations to for helping with the bust.” She smiled. “And I think I see big raises in both your futures.”

The two guards looked at each other, grinning. “Hot damn,” the one named Earl exclaimed. They gave her their names and then she turned to Milton. “Get ’em in the cruiser, Dupree. The sooner these slimeballs are at WFO, the better.” She turned back to the guards. “We’ll bring the locals in, but only after we’ve done a little ‘interrogation’ of these boys, FBI-style.” She winked at the guards. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

They both grinned knowingly at her. “Kick the crap out of ’em both,” Earl said.

She said, “Roger that. We’ll be in touch.”

They put Stone and Reuben in the backseat of the sedan and drove off.

Caleb waited until the guards were out of sight, then raced back to the Nova and followed Annabelle’s car.

Inside the sedan, Milton took the handcuffs off Stone and Reuben.

“Milton, you were talking some serious trash back there,” Reuben said proudly.

Milton beamed. He took his ball cap off, and his long hair streamed down.

Stone said to Annabelle, “When you do backup, you really do backup. Thanks.”

“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” she said. “Where to now?”

“My place,” Stone answered. “We have a lot to talk about.”