Tabor’s eyes swelled with gun hormones.

“Got it right here in the back,” said Broker. He dropped his tailgate and rummaged in his tools. Tabor winced disapprovingly at the disorder. Broker opened the hinged door to his false bottom compartment and slid out the mean black rifle and handed it to Tabor, who held out his arms like a man picking up his grandson for the first time.

“I gave him your money. It’s all yours,” said Broker.

Tabor cradled the rifle/launcher in his arms and looked at Broker in anticipation. Broker handed over the three rounds for the launcher.

“Those are high explosive, you can get illumination, smoke, and buckshot,” said Broker.

“I got to try it out,” said Tabor.

Broker rubbed his hands together and warily glanced around.

“I mean I’ll take it back on my land. Give me an hour,” said Tabor. It was a statement not a request.

“You, ah, know how to load it?” asked Broker.

Tabor grinned. “Got a manual.” He wrapped his new possession in the blanket, stuffed his pockets with 40mm high-explosive rounds and left the pole barn.

Broker closed the doors and waited a few minutes to make sure he was alone. Then he opened the door to his truck, rummaged under the seat, and pulled out a frayed copy of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides. His line of work, he always did kind of identify with Alcibiades.

There was an old easy chair in the barn and he sat there, drinking the rest of the coffee from his Thermos, reading with one ear cocked. Twenty minutes later he heard three spaced, faint crumps. Half an hour after that, tires crunched outside the building. Broker stuck his pocketbook back under his seat.

Now for the hard part. “You want the other five and the ammo it’ll be three thousand apiece and another thousand for two hundred rounds of HE. So sixteen grand. Then you guys split my fee. At my place. Tomorrow,” said Broker.