No way out

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Eldon Fowler’s Ruger Redhawk. 44 Magnum revolver was missing. He was certain it had been lifted on the last day of the gun show, some asshole rewriting the Second Amendment to include a right to steal arms. Didn’t matter. It was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it now except curse getting too old to protect what was his from some punk.

That, and file an insurance claim, which meant making a police report and turning over records to the cops that the government had no right to force him to keep in the first place as far as he was concerned, which was why he didn’t have the papers. Better to let the Redhawk go than have to deal with those bastards.

He’d set up three U-shaped tables under a banner he’d paid good money for that read ELDON FOWLER’S GUNS at the Expocentre in Topeka, Kansas, laying out a hundred and six semiautomatic assault rifles and fifty-two handguns for the Labor Day weekend show. For three days, he’d sat on a high bar stool with a swivel seat to keep an eye on everything, climbing down to talk only if a customer showed real interest, with the off-duty cops providing security to back him up, and still, he’d been robbed.

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