“You think you can put whatever you want in this neighborhood?” she screamed.
I kept both hands open.
“Put the bat down.”
She pointed it toward my chest.
“Don't tell me what to do!”
“You're on my property!”
“I'M THE HOA PRESIDENT!”
The words exploded from her mouth as though they were supposed to end the conversation.
I stared at her.
Then looked toward the large green tank.
A clearly visible sign on the side read:
EMERGENCY FIRE WATER RESERVE — AUTHORIZED FIRE DEPARTMENT ACCESS
Below it were the installation permit reference and emergency contact information.
The woman had walked directly past the sign.
She'd ignored two warning notices attached to the gate.
And now she was standing in my side yard threatening to destroy something intended to help protect dozens of families.
“Ma'am,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, “this equipment has been approved by the fire authority. You cannot damage it.”
She gave me a vicious smile.
“Watch me.”
Then she raised the bat again.
I stepped farther back, keeping the equipment between us without trying to grab her weapon.
“Don't do it!”
She swung.
The bat struck another metal fitting.
A dull, ugly sound rang across the yard.
I felt anger explode inside my chest.
Not because I was afraid of her.
Not because she had embarrassed me.
Because I knew what the tank contained.
Twelve thousand gallons of water.
A professionally installed supplemental firefighting supply.
A project I'd spent months organizing and more money than I wanted to remember paying for.
And potentially the only immediately available supplemental water source near the eastern end of our neighborhood if the private hydrant system failed during a major emergency.
She didn't understand any of that.
Or perhaps she did.
That question would become important later.
At the moment, all I could think about was preventing another strike.
“STOP SWINGING!”
She turned toward me.
“You touch me, and I'll have you arrested!”
I kept my hands raised.
“I haven't touched you.”
She took a step closer.
“You're threatening me!”
I looked toward the surveillance camera above the garage.
Then back at her.
“Everything is being recorded.”
For half a second, her expression changed.
Then she laughed.
“Good! The entire board can watch me remove this illegal eyesore!”
She raised the bat over her shoulder.
And that was when a commanding voice erupted from behind us.
“DROP THAT BAT!”
Both of us turned.
Standing just inside the open wrought-iron gate was a tall, broad-shouldered American fire chief in his early fifties.