But I had with me the greatest conversation-stopper ever made: a pump-action shotgun. At the cost of one unfired shell, I could make the kind of sound that would freeze any three men to any three spots in the world.
The most intimidating noise ever heard.
Crunch crunch.
My ejected shell hit the leaves at my feet and the three guys froze solid.
I said, "Now the rifles hit the deck."
Normal voice, normal pitch, normal tone.
The sandy-haired guy dropped his rifle first. He was pretty damn quick about it. Then went the older guy, and last of the three came the wiry one.
"Stand still now," I said. "Don't give me a reason."
Normal voice, normal pitch, normal tone.
They stood reasonably still. Their arms came up a little, out from their sides, slowly, and they ended up a small distance from their bodies, where they held them. They spread their fingers. No doubt they spread their toes inside their boots and sneakers and shoes. Anything to appear unarmed and undangerous.
I said, "And now you take three big paces backward."
They complied, all three guys, all three taking exaggerated stumbling steps, and all three ending up more than a body's length from their rifles.
I said, "And now you turn around."
52
I had never seen any of them before. After the slow spin the older guy had ended up facing me on my left. He was completely unknown to me. He was just a guy, not very significant, a little pouchy and worn. The guy in the middle was the sandy-haired one. He was like the older man would have been, had he grown up twenty years later and in better circumstances. Just a guy, a little soft and civilized. The third guy was different. He was what you get when you eat squirrels for four generations. Smarter than a rat and tougher than a goat, and jumpier than either one.
I tucked the Winchester's stock up in my right armpit and pulled my elbow back and held the gun one-handed. I aimed it less than perfectly at the guys on the right. But then, it was a twelve-gauge shotgun. My aim didn't need to be perfect.
I used my left arm as a communications aid and looked at the older guy and said, "Now comes the part where you take out your sidearm and hand it to me."
He didn't respond.
I said, "And here's how you're going to do it. You're going to pull it out of the holster with one finger and one thumb, and then you're going to juggle it around and reverse it in your hand, and you're going to point it at yourself, OK?"
No response.
I said, "Second prize is I shoot you in the legs."
Normal voice, normal pitch, normal tone.
No response. Not at first. I thought about wasting another shell and pumping the gun again, but in the end I didn't need to. The old guy wasn't a hero. He hopped right to it after a second's thought. He did the finger and thumb thing, and he got the gun reversed in his hand, and he pressed its muzzle to his belly.
I said, "Now find the safety and set it to fire."
It was hard to do backward, but the guy succeeded.
I said, "Hold the barrel with your thumb and first two fingers. Get your ring finger loose. Now get it back there in the trigger guard. Right back there. Pressing backward on the trigger."
The guy did it.
I asked, "Now what do you know?"
He didn't answer.
I said, "Any kind of struggle, you get a bullet in the gut. That's what you know. Any kind of struggle at all. We clear on that? You understand?"
The guy nodded.
I said, "Now move your arm and bring the gun out toward me. Slowly and carefully. Keep it on the same line all the way. Keep it pointing right at yourself. Keep your ring finger hard on the trigger."
The guy did it. He got the gun a couple of feet out from his center mass, and I stepped in and took it from him. Just pulled it right out of his hand, as smooth as you like. I stepped back and he dropped his arm and I swapped hands. The Winchester went to my left, and I held the Beretta in my right.
And breathed out.
And smiled.
Three prisoners taken and disarmed, all without a shot being fired.
I looked at the old guy and asked, "Who are you people?"
He swallowed twice and then he got some kind of backbone back, and he said, "We're on a mission, and it's the kind of mission civilians should stay away from, if they know what's good for them."
"Civilians as opposed to what?"
"As opposed to military personnel."
"Are you military personnel?"
The old guy said, "Yes, we are."
I said, "No, you're not. You're a shower of make-believe shit."
He said, "It's an authorized mission."
"Authorized by who?"
"By our commander."
"Who authorized him?"
The guy started to hem and haw and bluster. He started talking and stopped again a couple of times. I crossed the Winchester's barrel with the Beretta and pointed the handgun straight at the guy. I wasn't sure it worked. I never trust a gun I haven't fired myself. But it felt right and it weighed right. The safety catch was off. I knew that for sure. And the guy was flinching pretty good. And he should know better than anyone whether the piece worked. Because it was his. I laid my finger hard on the trigger. The guy saw me do it. But still he didn't say anything.
Then the sandy-haired guy spoke up. The soft one. He said, "He doesn't know who authorized the mission, and he's too embarrassed to admit it. That's why he isn't saying anything. Can't you see that?"
"He'd rather get shot than be embarrassed?"
"None of us knows who authorized anything. Why would we?"
I asked, "Where are you from?"
"First tell me who you are."
"I'm a commissioned officer in the United States Army," I said. "Which means that if your so-called mission was authorized by the military, then you must currently be under my command, as the senior officer present. Right? That would be logical, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where are you from?"
"Tennessee," the guy said. "We're the Tennessee Free Citizens."
"You don't look very free to me," I said. "Right now you look kind of detained."
No answer.
I asked, "Why did you come down here?"
"We got word."
"What word?"
"That we were needed here."
"How many of you came?"
"There are sixty of us."
"Twenty teams for thirty miles?"
"Yes, sir."
I asked, "What instructions did you get when you got here?"
"We were told to keep people away."
"Why?"
"Because it was time to step up and help the nation's military. Which is every patriot's duty."
"Why did the nation's military need your help?"
"We weren't told why."
"Rules of engagement?"
"We were supposed to keep people away, however we had to do it."
"Did you kill that kid this morning?"
Silence for a long, long moment.
Then the runt on my right spoke up.
He said, "You mean the black boy?"
The old guy said, "This mission is fully authorized."
I said, "I mean the African-American teenage male, yes."
The guy with the sandy hair glanced urgently at his buddies. First one, then the other. Rapid movements of his head. He said, "None of us should answer questions about that."
I said, "At least one of you should."
The old guy said, "This mission is fully authorized at the very highest level possible. There is no higher level than the level that authorized this mission. Whoever you are, mister, you are making a very big mistake."