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Message: <blockquote data-quote="RangerWickett" data-source="post: 2834780" data-attributes="member: 63">HalloweenRobert hits the bars and clubs, seedy dives and dock pubs where he hears veterans hang out. It's a bit of a miracle, but he manages to catch wind of a rumor of a retired Army colonel who lives east of the French Quarter. The man is renowned for a collection of military hardware that for most people would be illegal. Best of all, word is that the colonel is willing to sell.Robert goes to an ATM and withdraws most of his bank account in cash. On his way to catch a cab, he hears screams in the distance, coming from the only dark and abandoned part of the docks, but he doesn't lose focus. He gets a ride, and heads to the local military hardware supermarket.* * *Scarpedin and Whitey link up and manage to find out what impound his bike is in. It's an outdoor one, close to downtown, surrounded by a high chain fence with razor wire, and watched over by a small booth with a single cop and a single camera. The entrance to the impound is one of those wheeled fences on a winch so it slides from side to side, instead of opening in or out.Whitey had a police scanner, so they know that there's an APB out for a group of people involved in a car chase and shoot out on the freeway. The description of Scarpedin is not very precise, but the last thing they want to do is raise suspicion."Follow my lead," Scarpedin says.Whitey, a bit panicky about walking up to a cop station, takes a moment to get his cool, then puts on his best poker face. He and Scarpedin stride up to the booth. It has bulletproof glass, a speaker, and a sliding box. The speaker clips on as the cop puts down his coffee and donut. The cop looks like Jack Black."What'cha here for?"Scarpedin feigns mild disdain, doing his best impression of an FBI agent."Good evening officer . . . ," he peers at the man's name tag, "Jackson. You'll understand if I'm brief Mr. Jackson, but my associate and I are here to take into custody a vehicle that you have in your impound."The cop frowns and looks away from the mini-TV he's watching. "ID and claim number?"Scarpedin chuckles. "I'm sorry, I don't think you understand, Jackson. You see, my associate and I are with a particular government organization that doesn't need IDs. You'll comply if you don't want any hassle."Sighing, the officer finally really looks at the two men in front of his booth: a tall white guy in a black trenchcoat, and a short and fat black guy with white hair in a black biker jacket decorated with the Confederate stars and bars. The cop glances back and forth, a clear expression of amusement on his face.Scarpedin sighs. "Do I have to spell this out for you, Jackson? I'm agent Jones and this is agent Smith. Department of Homeland Security. Understand now, Jackson?"Whitey's face is implacable, almost intimidating. In truth, Scarpedin knows his buddy has no idea what the hell's going on, but he's always been good at playing along.Officer Jackson rolls his eyes. "Sorry buddy. I can't let you in without seeing some ID."Scarpedin tenses for a moment, suppressing his irritation. Then he relaxes his hands out of fists, sighs, and says, "I'm sorry it had to come to this, Officer Jackson. Agent Smith, what do you say? Fifth Freedom?"Whitey does the bad-ass upward nod, like Ving Rhames in Pulp Fiction. "Yeah man. Fifth f*ckin' Freedom. Waste the nigga."The cop laughs and taps his knuckles on the inside of the booth's window. "Bulletproof, guys. C'mon! I just need you to show me some. . . ," he looks from side to side, then makes a money-grubbing gesture, "identification."At first Scarpedin interprets the hand gesture as some sort of crude offer for a sexual favor, but then he gets it, and his demeanor completely changes."Ohhhhh," he says, "sh*t man, if you just wanted a bribe you should've said that."The cop rolls his eyes, then pushes out the security tray for Scarpedin to put his money in. "Just make sure to put your ID in there too. There's a camera watching.""Yeah, right, whatever." Scarpedin pulls out fifty bucks and one of his fake IDs, puts them in the tray, and nudges Whitey. "Easy. I told you."Officer Jackson takes the money, looks at the ID, chuckles, then presses the button to buzz open the gate to the impound."Stay here," Scarpedin says to Whitey."Sure thing, Scarface."Scarpedin heads inside, looking for his motorcycle. There are a lot of abandoned flood cars, one rather nice looking Corvette, and one honest-to-god Harrier jumpjet, but he doesn't have the keys for any of those, so he just finds his bike. Thankfully Whitey brought along the sidecar. That'll be a good place to put the mini-gun."Yo!" Whitey shouts. "Scarface. The cop's shuttin' the f*ckin' door!"Scarpedin glances just long enough to see the impound gate starting to slide closed, and the cop in his booth pulling out a phone, no doubt to report someone trying to break into the impound. Scarpedin curses.He jumps onto his bike, turns it on, and guns it, knocking over a few other bikes parked nearby it, but managing to squeal through the gate before it jitters shut."Whitey, get in!"Scarpedin flips the bird at the cop, holding it for several seconds as Whitey scrambles into the side car of the motorcycle, and then he drives off."Told you it was gonna be easy," Scarpedin says. He laughs, glad to be on his bike again.* * *It costs Robert most of his cash, but when Scarpedin comes to pick him up they load up the motorcycle's side car. The mini-gun, a metal case with five thousand rounds of ammo in a chain, a belt of fragmentation grenades, another of tear gas grenades, a new uzi for Scarpedin, a pair of bulletproof vests, and a high-powered night-vision sniper rifle. He also brings along a tarp, which they use to cover the passenger car. They say bye to Whitey, tell him to keep his nose clean, and then Robert takes a seat behind Scarpedin as they drive off to the house of Belladonna's nana.</blockquote>

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