“Don’t move,” the Plonk said, keeping his rusty old .38 on me. “You don’t want that shit going off any more than I do.”
“It’s C4,” I said and kept working. “You could shoot it and nothing would happen.” I broke the panel on the front of the next claymore and stripped the block of plastic explosive. I had about four pounds now. It would be enough. The bandolier also held a remote that could trigger the blasting cap from 200 yards away if the four fat D cells held up. But, I wouldn’t need that. I’d be sitting right on top of the shit. A roman candle writing fuck you in the sky.
“Is that Dogwood Glen?” the Plonk asked and nodded in the direction of the gated neighborhood beyond the edge of the woods.
I nodded and leveled my 9 mill before he could even think to pull the hammer back on his old pistol.
“Wait!” he said. “I’m Eric!” Like that meant something. “I need to get a message to Stanford!” I gestured with my gun for him to continue. “We know he knows about the generator.”
“The what?” He had my attention.
“Tell Stanford not to take the bait. It’s a trap. One that’ll get us all killed.”
“If you know Stanford,” I said, “then you know he doesn’t listen to warnings.”
Eric the Plonk’s face twitched. He made a decision. “Tell Stanford that the vault is empty. If that’s what he’s coming for… it’s empty.” He put his hands above his head, pistol pointed skyward, and backed away into the trees.
I let him go. He was lying about the vault. He might have been genuine about the Plonks setting a trap, but the part about the vault being empty? That was a lie. Dammit, that is gonna change things. I put the blocks of C4 into my rucksack. I took the remote, too.
