Chapter Seven of A Reporters Nightmare

      The man called Baxter took the shovel and began digging. Smoky stepped past the wall Aragon was hiding behind and walked stiffly to the pickup. Baxter slammed the shovel towards the ground and hit his foot instead. He yelled and started hopping on one foot while holding the other in his hand.

     The other man jumped at the sudden sound and dropped the crate he was toting. It split open and diamonds spilled out. A shout came from the pickup and Smoky came running back. “Gates is gone!”

     The other men didn’t notice and Smoky gaped at the scene in front of him. And then his phone rang. He snapped it open and answered sharply. His eyes grew wide as he listened and his hand began to shake. When he hung up his face was white.

     “Get those crates buried!” he shouted. “The fire isn’t doing the trick; the police are on their way!”

     Baxter, Smoky and Tate flew to their jobs, Baxter limping due to his foot injury. The hole was big enough to bury at least three men side by side and stacked up by three.

     The men dropped the crates into the hole and hurriedly dropped the spilled diamonds around the crates; there was no time to put them back in an extra crate.

     Aragon watched as they threw dirt over the crates. It was then that he noticed that there were several trunks lining the edges of the unit and a truck load of antique junk, old wheelbarrows, tricycles, chairs, tables and other antique junk.

     Finally Baxter and Tate finished covering the hole and began lining the storage unit with the junk. By the time they had finished Aragon could hear the sirens and see the lights. The men ran out of the unit and slid the door down, locking it with an antique lock that was probably brand new.

     Just as they began to run to his pickup Aragon called to them. “Hey, over here!” he called.

     The men turned to look at him and he snapped a picture on his phone. The picture was slightly fuzzy but clear enough that the police would be able to identify them.