Samantha Moon 02: Moon Mourning (Origins Book 2) by J.R. Rain & Matthew S. Cox

Author:J.R. Rain & Matthew S. Cox [Rain, J.R. & Cox, Matthew S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

***

Three minutes after Chad hangs up, another pickup truck―a Chevy, red, and battered―comes down the street from the other direction and pulls into Joey’s driveway.

Two thirtysomething men hop out and go inside. Both are rocking the same T-shirt and camo pants couture. They look like rejects from Army boot camp, discharged for failure to maintain their uniforms. And for well, moonlighting as illegal arms dealers. That last part, of course, being an educated guess.

“You think these guys in the red truck are the buyers?” I ask.

“Could be.” Chad wrings his hand at the wheel. “And the ones in the blue truck are selling. Joey’s the middleman.”

One duck, two duck, red truck, blue truck. Ugh. Where did that come from? I’ve been listening to far too much television aimed at toddlers.

“Let’s go create a delay. ATF’s on the way. I’d rather there be something here for them to find.”

Chad nods as he starts the car. “What are you thinking?”

“Property inspections are random, aren’t they?”

He chuckles. “Right.”

We drive the hundred feet or so to the house and park behind the beat-up Chevy. The walk to the front door covers me in burning hell. I double-time it past the truck to the shelter of the porch, and seethe in pain, which mutates into anger. Rattling, like guns being examined, comes from behind the door.

“That’s badass as hell,” says a man.

“M249 squad support weapon,” replies Joey, sounding proud. “800 rounds-per-minute cyclic.”

Say what?!

I grab the knob with my left hand while my right settles on my Glock. Without even thinking, I twist and push. The knob comes off in my grip and the door crunches inward, the still-locked latch gouging the wooden doorjamb like taffy.

Chad catches up and gives me a look.

“What?” I whisper. “Rotten door frame.”

I chuck the knob aside into the bushes and shove the door open. Joey and three other men stand around in the living room (in front of the super-expensive TV that is now the least of our problems) holding military-style weapons. The oldest guy with brown hair’s hefting the M249, everyone else has an M16 rifle, one even has a grenade launcher attachment. My Glock feels like a pea-shooter.

All four men stare at me like Mom just caught them masturbating.

“Federal agent!” I say, raising my puny weapon. “Drop the weapons and get on the floor!”

Chad edges in behind me.

The men lower the weapons to the rug and stand back up with their hands in the air.

I wag the Glock to the right. “Over there. Away from the hardware. Get down with your arms out where I can see them.”

“Jesus effing Christ,” mutters Chad. “Is that a grenade launcher?”

“I got a Class III dealer permit,” says the fortysomething man with brown hair.

I shift my attention as best I can among the men, watching for sudden motion. “Well, if that’s true, then you boys have nothing to worry about. It’ll just take us a little bit to sort everything out.”

Joey’s shaking and white in the face. His hands twitch, so I shift to point my Glock at him.

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