Finest Hour

by Dr. Arthur T Bradley

  “I’ll watch it,” she offered. “You go find your dog.”

  “If you see anything you don’t like, fire a shot into the air.”

  “Likewise.”

  “The M4’s in the truck.”

  She nodded. They both knew that with her bandaged hand, it would be far easier than the Beretta for her to use.

  Mason started down the narrow dirt trail, calling Bowie’s name. He hadn’t heard gunshots, so he thought it doubtful that someone had gotten the better of the dog. More likely, he had tangled himself in a thick patch of briars or found something too interesting to walk away from. Despite there being several good reasons for the dog not having returned, Mason couldn’t shake the feeling that Bowie was in some sort of trouble.

  He tried to quicken his pace, but the farther in he went, the more overgrown the trail became. Trees and bushes encroached from both sides, and before long, he was fighting his way through brambles and tripping over a tangle of roots. The only sign of anything having traveled the trail was the occasional pile of deer droppings.

  Mason forged ahead, finally coming upon a small clearing a few hundred yards in. At the center was an old cemetery encircled by a rusty wrought iron fence. A sign hung from the closed gate, but it had long since faded. To his surprise, he discovered Bowie lodged between two of the fence posts, head poking out like a prisoner trying to escape.

  Bowie began to whine almost immediately.

  “What did you go and do?” Mason said, gently pushing the dog’s head back through.

  As soon as he had Bowie free, he went around and opened the gate. The dog charged out, scrubbing against his legs and whining so loudly that he sounded like a child crying.

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re okay now,” he said, hugging the dog.

  Bowie finally calmed, and Mason took a moment to look around the cemetery. It was very small, maybe thirty feet across, and filled with an assortment of tiny markers and headstones. He squatted down and wiped dirt from one of the markers.

  Callie – Proof that they don’t always land on their feet.

  Mason rubbed his chin, thinking that it was the strangest epitaph he had ever read. He examined another one. Mr. Midnight – A gentler soul never walked the earth.

  A third marker read, Jett – Done in by our vet. On that marker, there was an imprint of a dog’s paw.

  He looked over at Bowie and grinned.

  “Of all the places to get yourself trapped, you went and picked a pet cemetery?”

  Bowie said nothing, turning his head every few seconds to ensure that the gate hadn’t magically closed, trapping them forever.

  “All right,” he said, standing back up. “We’ll leave. But one day you’re going to have to explain to me how you got in here in the first place.”

  As they were leaving the cemetery, Mason noticed a set of footprints in the dirt. He probably wouldn’t have paid them much attention had it not been for their size. The prints were very small, probably a child’s. What was even more interesting was the fact that there were actually two sets of footprints directly on top of one another. It was a technique used by American Indians to mask their numbers, but he couldn’t imagine why children had attempted such trickery.

  He followed the footprints a short distance until they disappeared into the forest. Leila had been right. They weren’t alone.

  As Mason returned to the trail, his suspicion that Bowie’s entrapment had not been an accident continued to grow. The question was why? If the kids had wanted to kill Bowie for food, he would have been easy enough to stone while trapped inside the pen. But they hadn’t harmed him at all. So why bother closing the gate?

  He tensed as the answer came to him.

  Trapping Bowie had accomplished only one thing. It had lured Mason away from the truck.

  Mason began fighting his way back through the brush, his pace growing steadily quicker as the idea transitioned from being a nervous hunch to an irrefutable fact. Bowie raced alongside, darting and weaving through the tangle of plants like he was trying out for the Westminster Agility Championship. When they finally arrived back at the truck, Mason’s fears were realized.

  The tarp used to cover his supplies had been pulled back and draped over the tailgate. A handful of unopened packages of food lay scattered in the dirt, as if someone had quickly rifled through them looking for the tastiest treats. Both doors sat open, but Leila was nowhere to be seen.

  He rushed to the truck and gave it a quick onceover. The ammunition hadn’t been disturbed, nor had the water or medical supplies. The food, however, had clearly been rummaged through, and even accounting for what was on the ground, a good third of it was missing.

  Mason checked the cab. Not surprisingly, his M4 was also missing. There were, however, no signs of foul play. Leila was not a woman who would go quietly, and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could have captured her without a fight.

  Turning slowly in place, he cupped his mouth and shouted her name. A few seconds later, he heard a faint response, followed by the distant cracking of branches.

  Bowie barked and looked up at him.

  “Someone’s coming all right. The question is who.”

  Mason drew his Supergrade and moved to stand behind the engine compartment. Hope for the best; plan for the worst. It was an adage often repeated but rarely followed.

  Bowie hesitated, looking back and forth between him and the trees. He finally split the difference, walking to the front of the truck before stopping to face the forest.

  They waited, listening. Whoever was coming was making one hell of a racket.

  Mason spotted Leila only an instant before she stumbled out from the underbrush, batting away branches with the M4 like a hiker swatting mosquitoes. Her face was flushed, and her brow glistened with sweat.

  As soon as she saw him, she rushed over.

  “Thank God you’re okay.”

  “What happened?”

  She looked back toward the trees.

  “I was tricked, that’s what.”

  Mason waited for her to explain.

  “A boy came out of the woods, claiming that you and Bowie had fallen into an old mine shaft.”

  “A mine shaft?”

  “That’s what he said, and he was very convincing.”

  “How old was this kid?”

  “Perhaps nine or ten. He was a dirty little fellow, like he hadn’t bathed in a month.”

  Mason nodded. The kid’s age jived with the footprints at the cemetery.

  “He ran ahead, promising that he would take me to you. Once we got a few hundred yards in, he vanished. It took me a while to realize that I hadn’t accidentally lost him. He had intentionally lost me!” Her face grew redder with every word. “That left me wondering not only what had happened to you, but also which direction the truck was parked. It wasn’t until I heard you call out that I finally had a bearing by which to return.”

  Mason rubbed his chin, thinking.

  “It all makes sense now.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “I think we were both duped.”

  “Duped?” Even as she said the word, she noticed the food lying on the ground. “They stole our supplies?”

  “Just a little food.”

  She reached down and picked up several of the packages.

  “For thieves, they weren’t very thorough.”

  “Kids can only carry so much.”

  “Kids? As in more than one?”

  “At least two, probably more. I think we’ve been outsmarted by a gang of young Robin Hoods.”

  “Children? Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “They trapped Bowie to lure us away.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And when I stayed behind, they made up the story about you falling into a mine.”

  “Apparently, they’re as clever as they are hungry.”

  “This is crazy. If they had wanted food, all they had to do was ask. We would have gladly shared a meal or two.”

  “Perhap
s, but they didn’t know that.”

  She stared out at the forest. It looked as impenetrable as that of the fabled world of Pandora.

  “What do we do now?”

  He folded the tarp over what remained of their supplies.

  “We load up and go.”

  “What! We’re going to let them steal our food?”

  “They’ve already stolen as much as they could carry. If we go after them now, there’s a good chance they’ll circle back and take more.”

  “Then one of us will hide and catch them red-handed!”

  “No,” he said softly, “we can’t afford the delay. And even if we could, are you really prepared to torture kids to find out where they’ve hidden a few boxes of food?”

  “Of course not. But…” She shook her head and growled. “I am not accustomed to allowing others to take advantage of me. In Israel, we are taught never to allow any transgression to go unpunished. It is a sign of weakness that leads to more violations.”

  “That may be true, but this time we’re going to let it go.” He whistled, and Bowie hopped up into the bed.

  Leila waited until Mason had climbed into the cab and closed his door before finally joining him.

  As he started the engine, she said, “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m sure. We need to stay focused on what matters.”

  “And this injustice doesn’t matter to you? To us?”

  He leaned over and touched her cheek.

  “Leila,” he said in a calm voice, “we’re on our way save the President of the United States from a band of ruthless killers. Having a few cans of food stolen by some clever, hungry kids is a loss I will gladly suffer.”

  She closed her eyes and kissed his palm.

  “Forgive me. My pride is getting in the way of my judgment.”

  He chuckled. “It’s all right. Just remind me never to cross you.”

  “Consider yourself warned,” she said with a playful smile.

  Mason put the truck into drive and pulled back out onto the highway. Even as they drove away, he noticed Leila staring intently into her side mirror, watching for movement in the trees behind them. The fierce look in her eyes convinced him of one thing.

  Leila Mizrahi was not a woman accustomed to forgiving much of anything.

  Chapter 9

  The hike back to the gift shop was surprisingly uneventful, and by the time they arrived at the Hummer, Tanner was kicking himself for getting all worked up over nothing.

  Samantha opened her door and climbed in.

  “I guess he wasn’t too upset about our breaking into his hut.”

  Tanner slid in next to her.

  “That, or he was out hunting and never even knew we were there.”

  “If he’s really a super-soldier, he was probably hiding in a tree, watching us.”

  “No doubt with a knife clenched between his teeth,” Tanner said with a chuckle.

  She turned to him with a puzzled look.

  “Why would he have a knife in his mouth?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he lost the sheath.”

  “How would he lose the sheath?”

  “It could have fallen to the ground when he was running.” Even as he made his case, Tanner felt the inevitable knot-tying begin.

  “But wouldn’t he pick it back up?”

  “I guess.”

  “Even if he did lose it, wouldn’t he just make another one?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

  “Because of all the people we’ve ever met, a man who skins animals should never be without a sheath.”

  “Got it,” he said. “No knife in the mouth.”

  Tanner stuck the key in the ignition and gave it a turn. Nothing happened. He turned it off and tried again. The engine didn’t turn over. Even the electronics stayed dark.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Don’t know. Dead battery, maybe.”

  He pulled the hood release lever and climbed back out of the Hummer. As soon as he lifted the hood, he saw the problem. A small plastic fuse box lay open, leaving little doubt as to why the car wouldn’t start.

  Tanner stepped around to Samantha’s open window.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He disabled the engine.”

  “Disabled? How?”

  “Pulled a few of the fuses.”

  “It’s that easy to disable a car?”

  He nodded.

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “Besides our faces?”

  “Yeah, besides those.”

  “Nothing good.”

  She turned and looked out through the windshield at the dozen or so cars spread across the large parking lot. Having sat for nearly two months, all of them were covered in pollen and dirt.

  “Do you think any of them still run?”

  “With a little jump they should. See if there are any cables in the back.”

  Samantha climbed into the backseat and dug through the cargo area of the Hummer. When she turned back around, she was straining to hold a tool bag with both hands.

  “No cables, but I did find this.”

  He took the heavy bag from her.

  “If we have to, we’ll pull our battery and use it to jump another car. First, let’s see if one of them will start on its own.” Tanner retrieved his pack from the backseat and slipped it on.

  “Do you think he’s the one who hung those people from the bridge?” she said, sliding on her own backpack.

  “Probably.”

  “Yeah,” she muttered, “it seems like something an evil soldier might do.”

  “Met many evil soldiers, have you?”

  “Only this one. What about you?”

  “A few.”

  “Any that you didn’t kill?”

  “Nope.”

  He started toward a handful of cars parked in the handicap area directly in front of the gift shop. When they were halfway across the lot, Samantha reached over and grabbed his arm.

  “Tanner.”

  When he looked up, there was a man standing in the Gift Shop’s doorway. Leatherface wasn’t particularly tall, but he had thick forearms and square shoulders. Taking advantage of his natural cover, he was standing behind the bloated corpse they had discovered earlier. His uniform consisted of military ACU trousers, a faded tan t-shirt, and a black bandana tied around his head like a skullcap. His only weapons appeared to be a multi-purpose ASEK knife hanging at his side and a compound bow clutched in both hands. A quiver of arrows poked up over his shoulder, but one was already nocked between his fingers.

  “He looks upset,” she whispered.

  It wasn’t the man’s looks that bothered Tanner; it was his bow. A good compound bow could shoot an arrow at over three hundred feet per second, plenty fast enough to drill a man before he knew what was what. And standing at only sixty yards, they were well within the range of a skilled archer.

  “Move behind me,” he said.

  “Why? You’re not arrow-proof either.”

  “No, but if I go down, you can use my body as a shield.”

  “Right, like cowboys did with their horses.” She patted him on the back as if assessing his ability to stop a broad-head arrow.

  Without taking his eyes off the man, Tanner placed the tool bag on the ground and slid his backpack around to hang across his chest.

  “Will that stop an arrow?” she asked.

  “I hope I don’t have to find out.” He began to take slow deliberate steps backward. “Let’s see if he’ll let us get out of range.”

  Leatherface answered the question by drawing the bow back.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Tanner yelled, backpedaling toward the Hummer.

  The arrow sliced through the air, striking the center of his backpack. The impact felt like a fastball from Nolan Ryan, and he stumbled back, tripping over Samantha and taking both of them to the ground.

  “Are you okay?” she said, staring at the arrow poking into the air.

&
nbsp; “I’m fine,” he growled.

  Propping up on one elbow, he raised his shotgun and fired. Windows broke and wood splintered as pellets smashed against the store. At nearly seventy yards, it was a bit like flinging a bowl of chili at the wall. There was little chance that it would hit the desired target, but it could sure as hell make a mess of things.

  Leatherface squatted behind the corpse and carefully pulled another arrow from his quiver.

  “We’ve got to get out of range,” Tanner said, crab-walking backward while doing his best to cover Samantha. As soon as the arrow took flight, he flopped backward, squishing her against the hot asphalt. She mumbled something about the importance of managing one’s weight but made no effort to free herself.

  The second arrow whistled by, missing the top of his head by mere inches.

  Determined to be more than target practice, Tanner scrambled to his feet.

  “All right, you sonofabitch,” he grunted. “You want me, you’ve got me.”

  Before Samantha could stop him, he took off at a dead run toward the gift store. He held the shotgun in front of him, firing it one-handed as he ran. There was a time when Tanner could have run eighty yards in eight seconds. Even with the backpack, the shotgun, and a few extra pounds around the middle, he could still do it in ten. He figured that gave Leatherface three shots before a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound convict ran his ass over. The first shot would be essentially free. But as he drew closer, the other two would have considerable risk as buckshot tore up everything in the man’s vicinity.

  To his surprise, Leatherface opted to take none of those shots. Instead, he immediately disappeared into the darkness of the store. The man’s retreat, however, didn’t cause Tanner to slow or change his course. Once a charge had begun, it was best to see it through. Regardless of what the enemy did or didn’t do, the goal remained the same—to close the gap as quickly as possible.

  When Tanner arrived at the door, he hurdled over the bloated body and skidded to a stop, his boots sliding across a layer of coins and broken glass. He swept the shotgun left and right, ready to let loose on anything that moved.

  Nothing did.

  The gift shop was a huge multi-room store. In addition to the glass and coins, the floor was littered with stuffed animals, polished rocks, broken pottery, Indian artifacts, and hundreds upon hundreds of postcards.