Red Highway by Loren D. Estleman

“Bob, be quiet and let the officer talk.”
    The other man seethed, but he didn’t say anything.
    â€œNow,” said Norris, flipping to a fresh page in the notepad, “about the crime-fighting techniques in Drumright.”
    â€œI think you’ll find that this station is as well-equipped to deal with your average holdup man as any. Better than most, in fact.” The policeman was still rankled by Macklin’s outburst, but his confidence was returning.
    Norris stopped writing and looked up. “Some of the bigger stations have machine guns.”
    The officer nodded proudly. “We have machine guns. Bullet-proof vests, too.”
    The reporters looked at each other. “Really?” said Norris, eyebrows raised. “Could we see them?”
    â€œSure. They’re in the locker. Come on.” Crane got up and led the way to the rear of the station house, where a massive gun locker towered in the corner. He unlocked it with a key attached to his belt and swung open the door.
    Norris whistled. A row of six brand-new Thompson submachine guns gleamed in the diffused light from the ceiling, their carved wooden grips cocked at an upward angle. On the shelf below them, arranged in an overlapping pattern, was an equal number of hefty-looking quilted vests which resembled the chest protectors worn by baseball catchers. Boxes of ammunition were stacked neatly in the bottom of the lockers, as were extra steel drums for the machine guns.
    Norris didn’t take his eyes from the guns as he asked, “Mind if I look at one?”
    Crane smiled and lifted out one of the weapons, handing it carefully to the reporter. Norris stroked it and slid back the breech quite expertly.
    â€œI see you know how to handle a rifle,” commented the officer.
    â€œI’ve done some shooting, mostly on target ranges.” Norris let the action slam shut with a satisfying crack. He looked up. “Is it loaded now?”
    â€œYes, it is; be careful.”
    â€œI will.” The reporter hugged the machine gun to his waist and swung the barrel into Crane’s midsection. “Stick ’em up.”
    The other man, Macklin, heaved a second gun from the locker, racked in a shell, and pointed it at the officer.
    Crane hadn’t yet grasped what was happening. “Be careful with those,” he admonished. “They’re loaded.”
    Macklin sneered. “Shut up and reach!”
    Now the officer understood what was happening. His eyes swept the station hopefully, searching for another blue uniform like his own. There was none. Meekly, he raised his hands. “Who are you?”
    â€œNone of your business.” It was Macklin who had spoken. His face was hard and his voice had taken on a new authority. Balancing the Thompson on one forearm, he reached into the locker and hefted out another, which he tossed to his companion, and tucked yet another machine gun under his free arm. “Let’s go.” He backed toward the door, keeping both weapons trained on the astonished officer.
    Norris, equally armed, and with three extra drums of ammunition clapped beneath his right arm, hesitated. “What about the vests?”
    â€œFuck the vests,” shot the other. “Jesus Christ, we don’t want no goddamn vests!” He began moving faster.
    The other man backed out more slowly. Crane stared at the muzzles of the two machine guns as they moved away. Then the door slammed shut.
    Outside the station, Alex Kern turned and picked up speed, trotting toward the white Buick coupe parked beside the curb. “Okay, let’s take off.”
    â€œJust a second.” Virgil Ballard leaned one of his machine guns against the nearby “No Parking” sign and wheeled to face the police station. He crouched and squeezed the other gun tighter against his hip.
    Alex’s eyes grew wide. “Virge! No!”
    Virgil aimed the Thompson at the big front window and cut loose.