But on this afternoon as he contemplated the delinquent Model 70, he heard his dog Mike barking. Mike, a furious old half-beagle with a mangy coat and yellow eyes, prowled the fence Bob had built around his trailer; in exchange for table scraps and a daily romp through the hills, he’d chase any human thing away, except for the two or three that Bob allowed to call on him. But this day, Mike just kept howling for the longest damn time, and Bob knew that whoever had come by wasn’t about to leave.
He slipped a cocked and locked Series ’70 Colt.45 out of a drawer and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans, then threw on a jacket and his Razorback baseball hat and stepped out. The sun was a thin wash. Around him, the blue Ouachitas rose bleakly, bled dry of color by the coming of cold weather, and Bob turned the corner to see two men lounging next to what had to be a rented car just beyond the gate, while Mike yowled at them as if he’d kill them if they came closer.
They wore raincoats over suits. But they were soldiers of a sort. Maybe not now, but they’d been soldiers, that was clear. They were carved from the same tough tree, one square and blocky, Bob’s own age, but a head and a half lower to the ground, with huge hands and a weight lifter’s body; he had a sheen of crewcut hair, and every square inch of him said NCO.
The other was the officer: taller, but husky too, well-proportioned, with a square face and short but not crewcut hair. He had the look of at least nine of Bob’s eleven battalion commanders down through the years, men Bob didn’t love but respected, because they put mission first and last and always accomplished it.
“Go on, shuddup,” Bob said to Mike, giving him a kick. The dog slunk off to the door. But Bob didn’t open his locked fence. He put his hand under his jacket and set it on the haft of the.45, because it’s always better to have your gun in your hand than in your pants if it comes to kick-ass time.
“Y’all want something?” he said, squinting up his face.
“You’re Mr. Bob Lee Swagger?” said the officer.
“I am, sir.” Bob spit a glob of phlegm into the dust.
“You’re a hard man to get ahold of, Mr. Swagger. We’ve sent you five registered letters. You won’t even sign for them and open them. You don’t have a telephone.”
Bob recalled the damn letters. He’d thought they were from Susan, his ex-wife, wanting more money. Or from one of those nutty war groups that wanted to pay him just to come stand around at some motel and tell stories.
“This is private property,” he said. “You’re not welcome here. You go on back to where you came from and let me be.”
“Mr. Swagger,” said the officer, “we’re here with a business proposition that could mean a lot of money to you.”
“I don’t need any money,” Bob said. “I have plenty of money.”
“I was hoping you’d do me the favor of listening to me, that’s all. Take five minutes of your time, and then if you’re not interested in what I have to say, and what I’m proposing, I’m out of here.”
The smaller of the two men had not said anything. He was just eyeing Bob and he stunk of aggression. His big hands were in his pockets and Bob didn’t like the way there was a suggestion of bulk under the right arm of his raincoat.
Bob turned back to the officer.
“Why should I do you any sort of favor, sir? I don’t even know you.”
“Possibly this will establish my bona fides.”
With that the older man slipped a jewelry case out of his pocket, and flipped it over the fence. It landed at Bob’s feet in the mud.
“It’s authentic,” said the man. “I won it, all right. In 1966, near Dak To, just off Highway One. I was a major in the Twenty-fourth Mech Infantry. A very busy day.”
Bob picked the case up, and popped the lid to discover a Congressional Medal of Honor.
He swallowed just a bit. His own daddy had won one on the Iwo and at least a dozen officers had told him he’d earned one when he and Donny Fenn dusted that main forces battalion in the An Loc, but that it was a shame he’d never get it, as the politics of the moment were such that a sniper couldn’t get the big medal. It didn’t bother Bob. He’d never wanted a medal. He just didn’t like the idea that the killing he’d done was somehow wrong and couldn’t be recognized.
“All right,” said Bob, trying to put that shame out of his mind. “Out of respect for what you did for your country, I’ll hear your piece. Just keep it short.”
He unlocked the gate.
Inside the trailer, the two men took off their coats to reveal business suits. It now looked as if the smaller man had some sort of sawed-off pump gun under his arm; but he just sat back, a dullness coming over his face. Bob thought of him as some sort of attack hound; when Bob hadn’t been sure whether or not he’d let them in, he was all tense and full of fury, ready to strike. Now that they were inside, the little guy went limp.
The other man, however, did not. Leaning across the small table in the neat little living room of the trailer, he stared, his bright, dark eyes boring into Bob.
“Here, Mr. Swagger. This will help.”
He pushed a business card across at Bob, who read:
COLONEL WILLIAM A. BRUCE U.S.A. (RET.)
PRESIDENT-CHIEF OPERATING OFFICER
ACCUTECH INDUSTRIES, INC.
It gave an address somewhere in Maryland, and in smaller type it listed the firm’s specialties:
LAW ENFORCEMENT TECHNOLOGY
LAW ENFORCEMENT AMMUNITION
TRAINING SEMINARS AND FIREARMS CONSULTATION
“Okay,” said Bob, “so, Colonel, what’s on your mind?”
“Mr. Swagger, after I retired in 1975, I spent the next sixteen years as the supervisor of the Arizona State Police. I retired from that post last year, and now I’ve started this little business, which means to bring progressive equipment and philosophy to American law enforcement.”
“Is that why your boy is wearing a pump gun under his arm?”
The expression on the smaller one’s face didn’t change; but at the word boy his face seemed to lose just a shred of color, as if the man inside were baking in an oven.
“My associate is also my bodyguard, Mr. Swagger. Like anybody who’s spent a career in law enforcement, I have some enemies. Mr. Payne is duly licensed by the state of Maryland to carry concealed and he’s been authorized by the state of Arkansas to the same courtesy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“At any rate, this is why I’m here – the newest addition to my product line.”
He pushed a yellow box the size of two cigarette packs across the table at Bob.
ACCUTECH SNIPER GRADE, it said in bright red letters.
Under that it said, Law Enforcement Use Only.
Bob saw that it was.308, 150-grain hollowtip. He cracked the box, slid the ammo out to discover it displayed headstamp up in a Styrofoam tray. Twenty perfect double circles peeped up at him, rim-edge and primer, looking like eggs or eyes. He plucked a cartridge from the tray, heavy brass, gleaming brightly, the copper-sheathed cone climaxing in the precise circle of the crater at the tip. It looked like any other.308 except for the bright band of glossier brass at the neck of the cartridge.
“None of the big American ammo companies can touch this stuff,” said the colonel. “Not even the expensive grade lines, the Winchester Supreme, the Federal Premium, the Remington Extended Range. I guarantee Minute of Angle in a proper rifle.”
“Neck turned,” Bob said, his finger touching the bright band. “How can you mass-produce a neck-turned round? That’s a handloader’s job. I don’t see how it can be done.”
“Lasers.”
“Hmm,” said Bob. “Okay, I know some outfits these days use lasers as sighting devices. But y’all use them in the loading?”