Confident that things were as they appeared, Mason removed his hand and gave Bowie the nod. The dog scurried in through the open door, and he quickly followed, sweeping the room with his M4. To the right was a large walk-in cooler and, to the left, a dishwashing station and a shelf stacked with thick bundles of paper napkins. A set of saloon-style doors led further into the restaurant.
Bowie quickly circled the room, stopping briefly to sniff the bottom of the refrigerator door.
“Clear,” Mason called back over his shoulder.
Leila stepped in behind him, nudging the brick out of the way and easing the door shut. Unfortunately, the lever for the deadbolt had been broken off, and there appeared to be no way to secure the door from the inside.
“Leave it,” he whispered. “If they want in, that door won’t stop them.”
Mason motioned for Bowie to proceed into the restaurant, and the dog plowed ahead, bumping the saloon doors open with his nose. A few seconds later, he poked his head back through, leaving Mason to conclude that the restaurant was not only safe, it was also void of anything worth eating.
Following Bowie’s lead, Mason and Leila pushed through the doors and stepped into the waitress station. Along the rear wall was a large metal grill, coffeemakers, juice dispensers, and a glass pie case, all of them clean and empty. A long laminate counter with swivel stools separated the waitress area from a row of tables and benches. Coffee cups, plates, and water glasses were piled in neat stacks on the counter, as if the owner were preparing to put on a king’s feast.
There were no bodies, which helped to explain the less than objectionable odors, and about half of the windows were covered with pages from the Ashe Mountain Times. Somewhere along the way, the owner had either realized the futility of his actions or simply run out of pages.
“Not much in the way of hiding,” she said.
Mason studied the restaurant and then looked back at the swinging doors. Leila was right. The counter wouldn’t stop much, and even if it could, it left them exposed on one end. Without a word, he returned to the back room, walking straight to the cooler door. He gave it a quick tap. The combination of insulation and stainless steel cladding appeared thick enough to stop a bullet.
Leila and Bowie came up behind him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
He grabbed the door handle.
“I’m thinking that you might want to hold your nose.”
Mason gave the handle a tug and stepped back, certain that he wasn’t going to like what was inside.
He was right.
The cooler was filled with tubs of maggot-infested sausage, buckets of moldy pancake batter, and huge cardboard cartons stacked high with spoiled milk. A sour organic stink puffed out like the burp of a binging college student.
Bowie sneezed and shook his head.
“Whew,” Leila said, waving her hand in front of her nose. “I think I’d rather take my chances with the Ravagers than hide in there.”
“Agreed. But that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Mason swung the door open a little further and examined the hinges. They were typical reversible cam-rise designs in which reinforced nylon pins were sandwiched by die-cast zinc straps. He grabbed the front edge of the door and lifted. Both nylon cams slid up, but he wasn’t quite strong enough to lift them free of the straps.
“Give me a hand, will you?”
Leila hurried forward to help lift the door.
“What in the world are we going to do with this?” she said, grunting.
“You’ll see.”
Once they got it free, he lowered the door on the floor and pushed it into the waitress station. Realizing that it wasn’t quite wide enough standing upright, he tipped the door sideways so that the hinges rested on the ground. He slid the entire thing over next to the grill, the hinges leaving deep scratches in the tile that no buffer in the world was ever going to take out. When it was in place, he swung the door around, finally kicking it with his boot until it was wedged firmly between the grill and the counter.
“You’re making a barricade.”
“I hope we don’t need it, but it’s better to be prepared.”
Mason hopped over the door and crouched behind it, checking for possible bullet trajectories. To the rear was a three-layer wall consisting of laminate, sheetrock, and brick. To the right was a bathroom and, beyond that, another brick wall. The big industrial grill sat to his left, and the cooler door protected the front. Climbing onto the roof and shooting down through the ceiling might be possible, but the enemy would not only be shooting blindly; they would also be giving away their position, a scenario that did not bode well for the shooter. All in all, it wasn’t bad for a makeshift defensive position.
“Very clever,” Leila said, patting the door with her palm.
He offered an appreciative nod.
“Let’s just hope an entire gang of road warriors doesn’t show up for breakfast.”
The sound of motorcycles whined closer, circled the parking lot, and then split off in several directions. Mason rested a hand on Bowie’s back, partly to reassure him, but mostly to keep him calm so as not to give away their position. Once the motorcycles had quieted, Mason and Leila peeked over the cooler door. Most of the gang had gone off to search other areas, but three of the ravagers remained behind. They watched as the men dismounted from their bikes and cautiously entered through the collapsed wall of the Dollar General.
“They’re not sure where we went,” she whispered.
“No, but we won’t be hard to find.”
Leila pushed the slide on her Beretta back slightly to double-check that there was a round in the chamber.
“What’s the plan?” she whispered.
“We need to take them out quietly so as not to alert the others.”
She looked down at the pistol in her hand and then over at his M4.
“Not with these we’re not.”
Mason looked around the restaurant. The place had been picked clean. Short of throwing plates, options were pretty scarce. He turned and looked out through one of the uncovered windows. The Dollar General might contain something useful, but with the Ravagers inside, it posed an even greater risk. His eyes settled on the bright red and white sign hanging above the Jiffy Lube.
“Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“Over to that small garage.”
“Why?”
He stood up. “I’ll explain when I get back.”
She reached over and grabbed his hand.
“Mason…” There was a pleading to her voice, an unspoken worry that couldn’t quite find words.
He leaned down and kissed her softly.
“Five minutes, tops.”
A smile touched her lips.
“I’ve heard that before.”
He kissed her again. “And I came back, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.” She squeezed his hand. “Be careful.”
Mason slid across the counter, and when he did, Bowie scrambled to his feet.
“Sorry, boy, I’ve got to do this alone.”
The dog whined.
“If you leave,” Leila said in Bowie’s ear, looping her arm around his neck, “who’s going to protect me?”
The dog licked her cheek but immediately turned his attention back to Mason.
“I’ve got him,” she said. “Go.”
Staying low, Mason edged around the counter and cautiously pushed his way back through the saloon doors. With the freezer door missing, the stench of rotten food now filled the entire area, and it took all he had not to retch. He hurried back out through the service door, using the brick to prop it open for his return. His first stop was the bed of his truck, where he retrieved a roll of black duct tape. Slipping it onto his wrist, he raced to the corner of the building.
The collapsed wall of the Dollar General was completely blocked from view. Good, he thought. If he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him. W
ith his rifle in both hands, he bent forward and dashed across the parking lot, circling around to the back of the Jiffy Lube. It was a small building, divided into a service bay and a customer waiting area. The three bay doors were closed up tight, but a small entrance used by employees to take a quick smoke break had been left unlocked.
He swung it open and stepped inside. The service bay was an absolute mess. A thick pool of brown oil covered the concrete floor, and several racks of air and oil filters had been tipped over, scattering small blue and white boxes to every corner of the room.
Mason would have preferred to avoid stomping through the oil, but he had little choice if he were to retrieve his prize. He took a tentative step and nearly fell, as his boot slipped out from under him.
“Whoa,” he said, retreating to regain his balance.
It was a good twenty feet across the room, and his chances of making it without falling were about as good as walking a tightrope stretched between skyscrapers. He let out a sigh. There was really only one way to cross the oil, and it required getting dirty.
Mason slipped the sling of his M4 over his head and snugged it up. He stepped back a few feet and bolted straight ahead. As he leaped over the slick, he dropped to his knees and slid across the floor like a puck across a hockey rink. Halfway across, he toppled sideways but managed to steady himself using his forearm as a rudder. When he got to within a few feet of the shelves, he shuddered to a stop on a dry patch of floor.
Using one of the racks to steady himself, he carefully pulled up to his feet. Several of the shelves were stacked with oil filters, and he began tearing open their tops until he found one that he thought might work. With the filter in hand, he leaped back over the oil slick, once again using his knees to slide across the room. Not having quite enough momentum, he stopped prematurely and had to knee-walk his way over to the door. Once there, he crept outside and took a moment to wipe off his boots. The knees of his pants were soaked with oil, but that was a problem for another time.
He readied his M4 and held the inlet of the oil filter up to the muzzle. It looked like about the right diameter. He carefully slid the filter down over the flash suppressor and examined the fit. There was an eighth of an inch gap all the way around, acceptable for what he had in mind. He pulled off a long strip of duct tape and secured the filter to the end of the muzzle, sealing up the small gap as well as possible. It was ugly to be sure, but he suspected that it would do the job.
While he had never made a homemade suppressor before, he had seen it done a few times with mixed results. People tried everything from pillows to potatoes, none of which worked particularly well. Oil filters were reputed to work better than most homegrown suppressors, but even so, he didn’t expect it to quiet supersonic ammunition. It should, however, at least help to muffle the sharp crack of gases as they were released from the muzzle.
Holding the rifle in the low ready position, he hurried back to the rear entrance of the Waffle House. The Dollar General remained out of sight, which left him a bit anxious about where his enemy might be hiding. He slipped back through the door and quietly navigated the stench-filled kitchen. As he was about to pass through the saloon doors, the crash of breaking glass sounded from the next room.
The enemy had arrived a little ahead of schedule.
Mason dropped to one knee and gently eased one of the doors open a few inches. The Ravagers had broken out a pane of glass and were now stepping through the open hole. Two of the men were armed with handguns, and the third carried a pump-action shotgun. As soon as they entered the restaurant, they spotted the cooler door propped up between the grill and the counter. One of them motioned for the other two to circle right while he moved in from the left.
With the men now spreading out, dropping all of them before they could get off a shot was going to be tricky. Mason quickly played out the sequence in his mind. From his position, he would be best served by taking the lone man out first, before sweeping across to pick up the other two. While he was a decent marksman with a rifle, he was in no way certain that he could get all three before they returned fire.
As he brought up his M4, Bowie suddenly leaped over the counter, charging directly at the lead Ravager.
The sudden appearance of an enormous dog startled the men, and Mason used the opportunity to attack. He squeezed the trigger, and a muted crack sounded as the 5.56 mm bullet popped a neat little hole in the end of the oil filter. The slug caught the man a few inches below his heart, punching through his ribcage and piercing a lung before exiting through his shoulder blade.
As the man fell, Mason inched forward and swept his muzzle to the left. Before he could get off another shot, Bowie tore into the man, biting and tearing as he drove him to the ground. The Ravager screamed, blindly swinging his fists as the animal mauled him.
Mason continued his sweep, settling on the third man an instant before he ducked behind the laminate counter. Unable to see his target, Mason walked a series of five shots across the panel board, each spaced about six inches apart.
Uncertain if he had hit the man, he rushed through the swinging doors and dove headfirst onto the counter. Momentum sent him sliding down the long countertop, crashing into stacks of dishes, napkin holders, ketchup bottles, and salt shakers. When Mason finally came to rest, he saw the man curled into a ball on the floor, cupping his groin with both hands. The shotgun had fallen to the ground and now rested under a stool to his left.
Before he could bring his rifle back on target, the man whipped around with a Glock G27 and blindly squeezed off a shot. While the subcompact weapon was certainly capable of hitting a man-sized target at such a short distance, the shooter’s hands were slippery with blood, and Mason was a narrow horizontal target, not a shape that most people practiced shooting at.
The bullet hit nearly a foot too low, splintering wood as it smashed into the counter’s kickboard.
Mason rolled onto his side and returned fire, three quick presses of the trigger. The right half of the man’s skull burst open, spattering the stool with chunky niblets of brain. He fell back, and a pool of dark red blood slowly spread out from beneath what was left of his head.
Bowie growled, and Mason turned to find him shaking the final Ravager, his powerful bite clamped around the man’s throat. If he wasn’t dead already, he would be soon.
Sitting up and sliding his legs off the counter, Mason walked toward the first man he had shot. The Ravager lay on his back, arms flat at his side. His eyes were open, and his chest heaved up and down. A CZ75 semiautomatic pistol lay at his side, but he was in no condition to use it.
By the time Mason reached him, the man’s mouth had fallen open, and his pupils were slowly dilating. He had gone on to join his friends in whatever hereafter awaited violent men.
Leila peeked over the top of the cooler door with her Beretta in hand.
“Is it over?”
“Yes.”
Bowie released the man and walked over to scrub against Mason’s leg, hesitating when he smelled the oil-soaked fabric. He looked up and studied the bright blue oil filter taped to the end of the M4.
Mason leaned over and patted the dog.
“That, my friend, would be hard to explain even to a dog as smart as you.”
Leila hopped over the countertop and came over to give Mason a hug.
As she pressed her body against his, she said, “You’re late, as usual.”
“Correction. They were early.”
She shook her head. “Men.”
“A single word has never explained our shortcomings so well,” he said with a smile.
With her arms still wrapped around him, she leaned back and studied the restaurant.
“What now?”
“Now we hang around for a while to make sure the others have gone.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged. “An hour should do it. Men like these don’t have much patience.”
“And what do we do for an hour? Cook up some pancakes?”
Between the adrenaline still pumping through his body and the inviting press of Leila’s breasts against his chest, Mason couldn’t help but feel the stir of desire.
“I am hungry,” he said, sliding his hands down to cup her buttocks, “but not for pancakes.”
“Here?” she breathed. “Now?”
He lifted her into the air and carried her over to the counter.
“Why not? We wouldn’t be the first people to make love in a Waffle House.”
“Really?”
“Oh sure,” he said with a grin. “It’s practically a national pastime.”
The small town of West Jefferson lay ten miles behind them, and it now seemed unlikely that the band of Ravagers had detected their escape.
“Your silencer trick must have worked,” Leila said, looking back through the sliding rear window of the F150.
Mason nodded. “We got lucky.”
“You most certainly got lucky,” she said with a wink. “I hope you enjoyed your… pancakes.”
“What’s not to enjoy? Sweet. Fluffy. All they needed was a little butter.”
She laughed and punched him lightly.
They took a lazy turn, skirting the New River State Park on their right. The two-thousand-acre national park had an old-fashioned charm with its narrow winding roads, rustic churches, and country stores. The river itself had once served as a tranquil retreat for bird and butterfly watchers, not to mention the weekend fisherman hoping to catch his fill. A large single-story building poked up from between the trees, which Mason guessed was almost certainly a campground center. It wasn’t the building, however, that caused his gut to seize. It was the long string of motorcycles and cars idling out front.
He had glimpsed the Ravagers for only an instant, and he thought it possible that they might have missed a lone truck passing on the highway. He sped up, holding his breath as he passed a small road that cut deeper into the park. It was only when he heard the blaring horn of Willie’s car that he knew that their luck had run out.
Finest Hour Page 7