Samantha quickly dug in his backpack and pulled out the bottle of antibiotics the doctor had given him. She opened it and dumped one of the pills into her hand.
“Here,” she said, “take this.”
He shook his head. “You might need them. Let’s give it a day or two to make sure your fever doesn’t come back.”
“Take it,” she repeated, pushing the pill toward him.
“Fine.” He tossed it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it down.
“Did you just chew that?” she asked with a horrified expression.
“So?”
She stood, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Fine,” he said, “now you know. I can’t swallow pills.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“What? I told you it was a horse pill.”
“But you’re as big as a horse!” she said, chuckling. “Besides, would it have made any difference if it was smaller?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
“It’s all right,” she said, stifling a laugh. “Everyone has a weakness. Even Superman.”
“Are you comparing me to Superman?”
“No, he’s much stronger and more handsome. Plus, he can fly.”
“But?”
She raised an eyebrow. “But what?”
“You were going to finish by saying something nice about me.”
“I was?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay. Well, you’re really…” She thought for a moment. “Warm.”
“Warm as in friendly?”
“No. Warm as in making me sweat when I hold onto you.”
He shook his head.
“What?” she said. “That’s nice. If it were cold out, I wouldn’t need a coat.”
“But it’s not cold out,” he said, swinging his leg over the bike.
“Nope,” she said, climbing up behind him. “It’s definitely not.”
CHAPTER
16
“If we’re lucky, the Ward brothers will come in as one big group from the north. When they see Joe wrapped around the pole, they’ll rush over to him, and that’s when we’ll make our move.”
Bowie stared at Mason and blinked a few times, as if to say, “That’s it? That’s your big plan?”
“The only other option is to shoot them on sight. And what kind of lawman would that make me?”
Bowie slid closer on the seat and leaned against him.
“Don’t worry. We’ll manage, like we always do.”
He lifted the Aug A3 out of the rifle rack and gave it a quick once over. There were thirty rounds in the magazine and another one in the chamber. Not a lot but enough for a firefight with three men if he watched his shots. The problem was that he had yet to even test fire the weapon.
Mason climbed out of the truck and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He took aim at a nearby car and squeezed the trigger halfway. The Aug bucked slightly and made a distinctive report. All right, he thought, it works. That’s something. He squeezed the trigger again, this time depressing it fully. The weapon rocked up and down as it went into full automatic mode, the bullets making a ping-ping-ping as they punched through the sheet metal. He lowered it from his shoulder, satisfied.
The Aug was simple and efficient, but it felt unfamiliar in his hands. The mantra of many Special Forces soldiers was “Know your weapon,” and for good reason. In the middle of a battle was not the best time to discover new features or limitations of your firearm. A good weapon was one that felt like a natural extension of the hand. Given his lack of experience with the Aug, as well as being limited to only one magazine, it would have to serve as his backup weapon. He quickly topped off the magazine with fresh 5.56 mm rounds and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
He surveyed the street, looking for a fallback position in case the fight didn’t go as planned. A Burger King, health center, and a host of small souvenir shops sat across from the arts center. None were suitable for making a defensive stand. On the opposite corner were several dark blue shipping containers stacked in front of an auto repair shop. He grabbed a couple of boxes of ammunition and walked over to inspect the containers.
Most of them were locked up tight, but one had been left open. A mound of soiled clothing was inside, and the distinct stench of human feces filled the air. He tapped on the heavy steel door. It wouldn’t stop a slug from the Browning .50 caliber machine gun that he had back at the cabin, but it was perfectly capable of stopping small arms fire. The position also provided a clear line of sight to the building as well as to where Joe was secured. Good cover, a good field of view, and nearly as defensible as a machine gunner’s nest. He couldn’t really ask for more than that—other than maybe an air freshener or two.
Mason set the Aug and spare ammunition inside the shipping container, leaving the door partially ajar. He turned around and mentally played out how a strategic retreat might happen, identifying cars that he could maneuver behind as he fought his way back to the rifle. If the three men were smart, they would split up and come at him from different directions. But what they should do and what they would do were likely two very different things. For now, Mason felt as prepared as the situation allowed.
To make the wait a little more comfortable, Mason moved his truck directly across from the entrance to the Paramount. From his pickup, he could see several blocks down Winchester Avenue, the path the Wards would mostly likely travel. He could also see their father, Joe, with his head leaning against the pole. The poor guy’s legs had to be hurting something terrible by now. It was a crappy situation to be in, but it was still better than what he deserved.
Mason sat watching for more than an hour. Not a single car maneuvered the crowded street. Nor did anyone come to investigate Joe in his most unusual predicament. Having been a soldier and a marshal, Mason had learned to be patient. Bowie, however, had adopted no such virtue and quickly grew bored, flopping down on the seat beside him.
Both of them were caught a bit off guard when the door to the Paramount suddenly swung open. Three men exited the dark theater and immediately turned in Joe’s direction. They were dressed in dark suits and cowboy hats, and had pistols holstered at their sides. If the cars had been replaced with horses and stage coaches, the men might easily have passed for the Earp brothers walking the streets of Tombstone, Arizona.
Mason quietly opened his door and stepped out. Bowie hopped down beside him, eyeing the strangers across the street. A deep growl rumbled in the mighty dog’s chest, and all three men turned to look.
Mason walked slowly toward them, stopping about seventy-five feet away—too far for most shooters to be effective once adrenalin started flowing. He took a moment to size them up. The oldest of the three, Karl, was also the biggest, standing well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. Max was shorter and leaner, but he had a shiftiness that made Mason uneasy. The youngest, Frank, was soft and pale, as if he had been born into English royalty.
“Gentlemen,” Mason said in a loud voice.
“Who the hell are you?” Karl said, sounding an awful lot like his father.
Mason pushed his jacket aside so that they could see the shine of his badge and gun.
“Deputy Marshal Mason Raines.”
They looked at each other, uncertain of exactly what that meant.
“You do that to our pa?”
Hearing his boys talking, Joe Ward began to shout for their help. Frank immediately started toward him.
“Don’t,” warned Mason.
“Or what?”
“Or my dog will chase you. And believe me, you don’t want that.”
Frank glanced apprehensively at Bowie and then back at Karl.
“What do I do?”
“Marshal,” said Karl, “you ain’t got no right to hold our pa like that.”
“You men have been committing violence against the people of Ashland. I’m here to put an end to it.”
&
nbsp; Max leaned over and whispered something to Karl. The man nodded slightly.
Mason readied himself. Seventy-five feet was too far to get all three before they could draw and fire, but he could damn well plug the first one to go for a gun. Bowie also sensed the change in their posture and began to move in.
A shot sounded from behind Mason, and a chunk of the wall exploded next to Karl’s head. The Wards immediately drew their weapons and began firing wildly in the direction of the gunshot. A bullet grazed Mason’s cheek, leaving a bloody burn to mark its passing.
Mason dropped to the ground and rolled onto his back as he searched for the shooter. Fearing that he had been hit, Bowie raced over and began to tug on his collar.
“Lie down, boy,” Mason said, pulling the dog down next to him.
More gunshots sounded as the Wards fought their way back into the Paramount. As soon as the door closed, the gunfire stopped.
Mason eased his Supergrade from its holster and waited. If the sniper had wanted him dead, bullets would still be flying. After about thirty seconds, a lone figure slowly stepped out from the health center across the street.
It was Connie West.
Mason stood up and raced toward her.
“What are you doing?” he snapped, ushering both her and Bowie behind a nearby van.
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m getting my revenge, just like I told you I would.” She chambered another round in the deer hunting rifle. “No one’s going to take that from me. Not even you, Marshal.”
He glared at her. “You damn near shot me.”
“I told you I wasn’t very good with firearms. So, I’m thinking that’s your fault.”
It was not the first time a woman’s logic failed to make any sense whatsoever to him.
“And what are you going to do now?” he asked, peeking around the van toward the theater. The doors were still closed.
“I’m going in there to kill them.”
Mason grabbed the rifle. “No, you’re not.”
“Let go. You have no right to—”
“Listen to me,” he said, raising his voice. “An injustice was done, and you ended up with a nasty reminder on your chest. I get it. But a scar isn’t worth dying over.”
She jerked the rifle out of his hands, her eyes burning bright with anger.
“Who the hell are you to say what’s worth dying over?”
“I’m just trying—”
“It’s fine for you to avenge your beloved girlfriend, but I can’t have justice? Is that it, Marshal?”
“I told you I’d take care of this.”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want you to take care of it. I have to be there to see them punished.”
Mason looked into her eyes, and in some ways it was like looking into his own. Connie was not going to be deterred from her mission, no matter the cost.
“I was only trying to keep you from getting killed.”
“I know that,” she said, her voice softening. “But some things are worth dying for. Surely you of all people can appreciate that.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was right. It wasn’t his call to decide what was worth risking her life over.
“Fine.”
She offered a small smile and touched his cheek.
“Marshal, I know you mean well. And I’m grateful to you for getting me this far. But I’m perfectly willing to go and do this by myself.” Before he could say another word, she marched off toward the theater.
“Hold up.”
She stopped and looked back at him.
“I can’t let you go in there alone.”
She let out a sigh of relief.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Mason, Connie, and Bowie knelt behind a large air handling unit, staring at the back of the Paramount. The loading dock was twenty feet directly in front of them, its sliding door already raised about halfway up.
“Are you sure about this?” she whispered.
“I’m sure we can’t go through the front door without springing a few leaks. Now, stay close. And for God’s sake, don’t shoot me or Bowie.”
Mason raced across the small lot, and Bowie dashed after him. When they got to the building, Mason pressed his back flat against the red brick wall. The partially open sliding door was only a few feet to his right. He looked back at Connie standing overwatch from the air handling unit. Her rifle was trained on the door but, given her previous marksmanship, that wasn’t particularly reassuring.
He squatted down and took a quick peek under the sliding door.
No one shot at him.
Mason leaned around to get a better look. It was dark inside, but there was enough sunlight coming in to make out a room, roughly twenty feet on a side. It was filled from corner to corner with boxes, crates, and moving dollies.
He motioned to Bowie, and the dog raced under the door, disappearing into the darkness. Mason waited three seconds and then rolled in after him.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Mason saw that there were only two ways in or out of the receiving area, the sliding door and a large corridor that led deeper into the arts center. Bowie had circled the room and was now busy trying to scratch his way into a big white box along the far wall. Food, no doubt, thought Mason.
He stood and shoved the sliding door all the way up. Connie broke away from her position and hurried over.
“Last chance to sit this one out,” he said.
She shook her head.
“All right then. Stay close.”
With his Supergrade at the ready, Mason slowly advanced down the hallway. Bowie hurried to catch up, his mouth smeared with white frosting and small crumbles of molded cake. Together, the three followed the corridor, their feet making a distinctive clomp-clomp-click on the concrete floor.
After taking two turns, they arrived at an industrial kitchen. Stainless steel tables, stoves, sinks, and other food preparation equipment lined the walls. Pots, cooking utensils, and napkins were scattered on the floor as if the sous chef had suffered a breakdown after discovering rat droppings in his prized risotto.
Mason stopped and listened.
Nothing.
He motioned for Bowie to circle left while he went right. Connie followed a few steps behind Mason. Pots tipped over, silverware fell from tables, and paper crumpled under their feet. There was simply no way to move through the room without everyone in the vicinity knowing they were coming.
All right, he thought, let’s see if we can use our misfortune to draw them out.
Mason hefted a pot big enough to boil spaghetti for Napoleon’s army and tossed it over by the swinging saloon doors at the opposite side of the room. It clanged against a metal table before clattering to the floor.
“What are you doing?” whispered Connie.
“I’d rather bring an enemy out into the light than hunt him in his own cave.”
Mason climbed onto a table next to the swinging doors and placed his back against the reinforced block wall. A small gap at the top allowed him to see a couple of feet out into the hallway.
It was clear for now.
He motioned for Bowie to be ready, and the dog turned to face the doors.
When nothing happened for more than a minute, he pumped his arms, motioning for Connie to make more noise.
She tossed a few frying pans around the room before ducking behind a stainless steel table.
Mason figured that if the Wards were going to come, they would do so within a couple of minutes. People were impatient when they had a gun in their hands. As he was about ready to give up on the idea, a shadow darkened the bottom of the doorway.
Bowie also detected the presence of someone, a low growl starting up in his belly.
Rather than blindly rushing in, however, the intruder cautiously inched the door open. Despite his vantage point, Mason couldn’t see the top of the man’s head. Perhaps he was leaning ar
ound or pushing the door with a broomstick. Smart.
Bowie started to move forward, but Mason held up a hand. The dog froze, his eyes fixed on the door as it slowly opened.
Mason heard something slide across the floor on the other side of door. Not wanting to risk Bowie breaking ranks, he grabbed the top of the door and flung it open. Max Ward lay on his belly, pistol in hand, high crawling through the doorway.
Madness Rules - 04 Page 19