Free The Point Team by J.B. Hadley

would believe him.
    “I’d swear these things have been moved around,” Tina said when they got back to the trailer from having dinner with friends
     forty miles west of there.
    Mike opened a drawer. His .38 Smith & Wesson revolver was still there. He checked the shells in the chambers and tucked it
     in the front of his belt. The rifles and shotgun were still locked in the gun rack on the wall. Then he checked the secret
     compartment in the floor of the trailer. The seals he had made with solder were broken. He unscrewed the cover. Inside, intact,
     were his submachine gun, ammo, Ml6, and pistols. Nothing had been taken. But the compartment had been discovered and opened.
     Whoever did it knew what they were doing. Yet not even they could escape Tina’s sharp eyes.
    “They’ve been through everything,” she said, “from recipes and electricity bills to cups and saucers.”
    “Stay here,” he told her. “I’m going to take a look around outside.”
    He slammed the door after him and walked up the lighted pathway past three other trailers before he cut between them, away
     from the lighted center of the park, out into the pitch-black, scrubby desert that surrounded them on all sides. He stood
     motionless out in the open land until his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and what had once been blackness now assumed different
     shades of gray and black in the starlight.
    Campbell moved slowly and gently, carefully placingeach foot as he made his way back to the rear of his trailer. Out here, only twenty yards from the tattered lawns and light
     bulbs of civilization, it was a different world. Things slithered along the ground at his feet, and small dark shapes ran
     swiftly and noiselessly in his peripheral vision. Every time his legs pressed against plants in his way, their thorns pierced
     his skin and sank into his flesh. There were no daisies or lambs out here, only lean spare creatures and plants that could
     defend themselves.
    He had eased his way almost directly behind his trailer before he noticed something unfamiliar, almost like the column of
     a cactus, quite near him. Campbell knew there was no cactus in that place. Then his brain sorted the information his eyes
     fed it. It was a human figure, standing rigid, pointing something at his trailer.
    Although he knew he should creep away to check the area further before acting, sudden anger overwhelmed Mike. He covered the
     ground between them in a few giant springs and leapt into the air so he hit the dark figure in the right shoulder with both
     his feet, flexing his legs to deliver a powerful double kick.
    In spite of the darkness, Campbell’s timing was good. He felt the tremor as his frame absorbed the shock of his jackhammer
     double kick, and he felt the sudden release as the man’s body lost its resistance and footing. It hit the ground with a dull
     thud, and before it could make a move, Campbell had thrown himself knees first onto the back of the prone figure, squeezing
     the remaining air out of the lungs in a long wheeze. Mike grabbed the man’s hair, hauled his face out of the dirt, and gave
     him a chance to breathe.
    “Who are you?”
    “Kelleher, FBI, Phoenix office,” the man gasped.
    Campbell did not budge. “What were you doing?”
    “I was holding a directional microphone toward your trailer.”
    “You know who I am?”
    “Campbell, get off my back, you big lug.”
    Campbell got to his feet, pulled his Smith & Wesson .38 from his belt, and let the man feel its muzzle against his forehead.
     “Your ID,” he demanded.
    He had to reach inside the man’s jacket himself to get the ID, and noted warily the revolver in the right hip holster on the
     man’s belt, the position favored by FBI men. The ID checked out, so far as he could see by the light of a trailer window.
    “Where’s your backup?” Mike asked.
    “Other side of the trailer camp. Asleep. I was going to wake him and go after you’d gone asleep.”
    “You wanted to