“I don’t think he’s armed anymore,” one of the guards said. “I think I’ve found the weapon.”
He was pointing at the barrier. We all crowded closer, and I saw, to my relief, that Mr. Throckmorton had covered the inside with sheets of plywood. So as long as that was in place, the guards weren’t going to spot Rob on the wrong side of the barricade.
We all peered down into the space between the Evil Lender’s outer barrier and Mr. Throckmorton’s inner one. Near the floor, caught in the rather pointless tangle of razor wire the lender had recently added, was a pistol. The matte black metal of its barrel gleamed slightly, while the handgrip seemed to be made of some material that absorbed light.
We all stared for a few moments as if spellbound, then one of the junior guards reached down as if to retrieve the pistol.
“Leave that alone!” Randall and Wilt snapped out their orders almost in unison and then glared at each other.
“The mayor’s right,” Wilt said.
“Moving the gun would be disturbing a crime scene,” Randall said. “We leave it there for the police to examine.”
“Pretty obvious what happened,” another guard said. “He shot her and then tried to throw it out.”
“Out or in,” Randall said. “We’ll let the police decide. They’re on their way, and so is the ambulance, so let’s clear this crime scene.”
“We’ll be taking charge of the crime scene,” Wilt said.
“No, you won’t,” Randall said. “Since—”
“This building is the property of First Progressive Financial!” Wilt was actually clutching and unclutching the butt of his gun, as if considering whether or not to shoot Randall for trespassing. Was it just my imagination or did the gun, at least what I could see of it, look exactly like the one discarded in the barricade?
Randall’s eyes flicked down briefly to those fidgeting fingers and then back to Wilt’s face. Either he didn’t think the guy was a real risk or he was one very cool actor.
“That’s as may be,” Randall said. “But you and your men are private security—not law enforcement. And right now this building is a Caerphilly County crime scene. Our sheriff has jurisdiction. So unless you fancy having you and your men locked up for interfering with a crime scene and obstructing a police officer in the commission of his duty, I’d suggest you get the hell out of here.”
“But since local law enforcement are not yet on the scene—” Wilt began.
“Yes, we are.”
We all turned to see Sammy Wendell standing at the foot of the stairway, looking tall and stern, with one hand resting firmly on his own holstered gun.
I realized my mouth had fallen open at the sight of the normally gawky and tongue-tied Sammy suddenly turned into John Wayne. I wiped the surprised look off my face. Randall managed to keep his astonishment to a brief flicker that Wilt probably didn’t even notice.
“There you are,” Randall said. “And I got a bit of law enforcement experience myself when I was in the service, so I think I can assist the deputy if he needs it. How about if you assemble your troops in the big tent right next to my office? Ah, there’s Deputy Morris. She can escort you.”
Aida Morris was a tall, coffee-skinned woman who competed in Ironman competitions in her free time. She took up a position on one side of the door to the stairs. She put her hands on her hips, although I noticed that the right one wasn’t quite touching—just hovering near her gun. Sammy took up the same position on the other side.
Wilt opened his mouth, probably to argue some more, but he took a good look at Randall and the two deputies and demonstrated more common sense than I’d have given him credit for.
“All personnel evacuate the building and report to me at assembly point Alpha Tango,” he snapped at his left shoulder, where the microphone was. Then he looked up at the four guards in the room with us. They were all tall—well over six feet—with the bulked-up, twitchy look of hardened gym rats who’d done too many steroids for way too long. What kind of security company would put loaded weapons in the hands of men like these? I wished Fisher, the Evil Lender’s sensible staffer, would show up. He’d been on the steps a few minutes ago—surely he couldn’t have gone far.
“You, too,” Wilt said, with a wave of his hand. “Alpha Tango, on the double.”
One by one the guards holstered their guns, backed away from the body, and retreated up the stairs. I was actually impressed. I’d once seen a dog trainer order three half-grown Dobermans to stop chasing a cat. They’d obeyed, visibly fighting to overcome their natural instinct to give chase. The guards gave me the same uneasy impression of barely controlled ferocity.