Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (11 page)

“No complications?” she asked as she coasted out of the lot.

“Other than my life being turned upside down by this? No. All good.”

They drove in silence for five minutes, the radio on low, an insipid pop tune crooning about timeless love and shaking that groove thang.

“Where are we headed?” Drake asked.

“My dad’s got a friend with a spread between San Antonio and Corpus Christi. Only uses it maybe four months a year to dove and pheasant hunt. He’s some kind of Richie Rich type. It’s about the size of Connecticut. No exaggeration.”

“Wow. That’s convenient.”

Allie shrugged. “My father knows plenty of government types that seem to have an awful lot of money. I don’t ask questions. I learned that from him.” She sneaked a peek at his profile. “How are you set up for cash?”

“Actually, right now, great. Probably for the first time in my life. I got almost thirty grand from Patricia, with another seventy coming. So I’m good for a while.”

“You should talk to my dad about what it’s going to cost to fund a jungle exploration. It can’t be cheap.”

“I will. I’m still kind of hoping there’s a way out of this.”

“Right. And I keep hoping for gelato that’s good for you and tastes awesome.”

He laughed. “How’s that going?”

“My odds are better than yours.”

The trip took several hours, and when they pulled off a narrow strip of pavement onto a dirt road, it seemed like civilization was a thousand miles away. The tops of mature groves of trees rustled in a lazy breeze, and the flatlands seemed to go on forever, the green of the earth blending hazily into the crystal blue of an endless sky. They bounced down the rutted lane for a quarter mile and dead-ended at an elaborate iron gate suspended from two brick posts. Chain-link fence ran as far as they could see along the property on either side.

“A big place,” Drake commented as Allie climbed out of the driver’s seat and approached the barrier. The padlock was open, and she unfastened the chain and pushed the gate wide before returning to the car and pulling through.

“Close it and lock it up.”

“How do I know you won’t leave me here?” Drake teased, but only partially.

“Don’t tempt me.”

He did as instructed and returned to the car. Allie eased it down the road, now little more than a track with two ruts in the grass. Ten minutes later they saw a brown two-story log structure nestled among tall oaks. Jack’s truck was already parked at the side.

Jack materialized at the edge of the trees with a reel of fishing line in one hand. Allie parked next to the truck and they got out after she popped the trunk.

“Good. You made it,” Jack said as he neared.

“Yup. No complications.” Drake eyed the line. “What are you doing? Is there a stream around here?”

“Nope. I’m stringing a perimeter line so we know if anyone gets within a hundred yards of the house.”

“You really think that’s a danger here?” Drake asked skeptically.

“Rule number one: Never rely on luck. Prepare as though you only have a short amount of time before all hell breaks loose. If you’re wrong, no harm done. You just got some practice. If you’re right, you might have just saved your own life.”

“How does it work?” Allie asked.

“I’m just finishing up. I’ve taken ten-yard lengths of line and secured them to the trees. Crude but effective. If anyone tries to sneak up on us at night, they trip the line, make a racket, and we’re warned rather than sitting ducks. I’d prefer if I had a few dozen claymores, but you make do with what you have. Which is rule number two: There’s always something you can use to defend yourself. Always. You just have to be resourceful.”

“What about the drive?”

“That’s next. We won’t be leaving for a while, so anything that trips the line can be considered a threat.”

“And then what?” Drake asked.

Jack smiled at Allie and turned to Drake. “My response to threats is to shoot first and ask questions later. That brings me to the next of today’s chores. We have about five hours of light left. After you get settled, you’ll be getting your first intensive shooting course.”

Drake and Allie hauled their bags inside the lodge, which was primitive but serviceable, consisting of a large main area downstairs with a second story of open loft. They climbed the stairs and Drake stopped.

“There are only two beds up here.”

“It won’t matter. One of us will be downstairs on guard duty while the others are sleeping. That’s how this kind of thing works. Three shifts of three hours apiece once we all tuck in,” Allie explained.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve had to listen to his war stories all my life. After a while it rubs off.”

Jack’s voice called from outside. “Drake? Come on out here. Might as well learn how to string a decent trip line.”

Allie nodded at him. “You heard the man. I’ll blow the worst of the dust off things in here. Go do manly-man stuff. This is your chance to bond with Pops.”

Drake joined Jack and watched as he carefully wound the monofilament around two tree trunks at knee height and tied crosspieces of line to either end. Satisfied with his work, he took empty soda cans and dropped some pebbles inside, shook them to confirm they would make suitable noise, and secured them to the crosspieces so they were resting on the ground, but the line was taut.

“A guy sneaking up on you in the dark, thinking he’s got the upper hand, he’s not going to be scouting for trip lines in the woods. Go ahead. Walk like you’re headed to the house.”

Drake did so, and when he connected with the invisible line, the two cans rattled.

“Nice. I get it.”

“You hear that noise, you don’t second-guess. You immediately get your ass in gear, because they’ll know what it was too, and that they’re blown. But it gives you an advantage, because instead of sleeping like a log, now you’re up, armed, and ready to shoot.”

“And you believe that there’s any chance at all someone could find us here? How?”

“Son, if I try to second-guess everything my adversary knows, and I get even one thing wrong, I’m making assumptions that can get me killed. Sure, it’s a slim chance, but it’s still a chance, and all I’ve lost stringing these rigs is an hour of my time. See the logic? No assumptions. Just preparation.”

Drake nodded. “It just seems like overkill.”

“With preparation, there’s no such thing. There’s simply prudent measures, and laziness – and laziness gets you dead. So does complacency. An enemy knows that. They’ll wait you out if they’re smart and they have time. Wait for you to let down your guard. For you to believe it’s all a big fat waste of energy. Next thing you know, you’re holding your guts in your hand. I’ve seen it. You don’t want to be that guy.”

They moved back to the house. Jack reached into the truck bed, lifted out one of the rifle bags and handed it to Drake, and then retrieved a large metal suitcase.

“All right. Let’s go for a walk. There’s an area about two hundred yards from here that should do.”

Jack led Drake to a clearing, where he arranged two sandbags on an old tree stump with paper targets taped to them. He set the suitcase on the ground, popped the lid, and glanced up at Drake.

“Go ahead and put the rifle down. We’ll start with handguns.”

Jack studied the four pistols in the foam-lined case, each with its own compartment, and lifted one out. He held it up and inspected it, ejected the magazine and verified that it had ammunition, and then slipped the magazine home and hefted it in his hand.

“This is a SIG Sauer P226 pistol. The magazine holds thirteen rounds of .40-caliber ammo. Now, a couple of things you need to know…”

The couple of things lasted half an hour, with Jack checking and rechecking Drake’s understanding of safety measures and the mechanics of the gun. Drake was an apt pupil, following Jack’s every word as if his life depended on it—since it did.

Satisfied that Drake respected the gun and could load and arm it, Jack next showed him the basic shooting stances, explaining the positives and negatives. Four magazines later, Drake had relaxed and was hitting the targets more often than not. When Jack remarked that he was beginning to find his primeval self, Drake eyed him skeptically.

Jack grunted. “You can doubt all you want, but I’ve been in shit enough times to know what I’m talking about. You’ve done karate; you told me so. Isn’t there a point in the match when you allow your training to take over, and you leave yourself out of it? That’s the secret to all the practice. You want this to become automatic, so when you’re in a pinch, you can simply
do
, rather than think. In sports, professional athletes call it being in the zone. This is no different. To perform at peak, you need to be in the zone.”

The afternoon went by quickly, and by the time Drake had been through his second box of ammunition, he was hitting the targets at twenty yards most of the time. Taking a break, Jack moved them back another twenty yards. Now the sandbags looked like dots.

“This is about as far away as you’ll ever be when firing, if you expect to hit anything. The weapon will be accurate to fifty yards, but the chances of you actually hitting your target are slim to none unless everything’s ideal. Remember – pistols are good for close-quarter shooting, but if the target’s more than twenty or thirty yards away, go for a rifle every time, assuming you have the choice.”

Rifles came next, and Jack showed him the basic operation of an AR-15 semiautomatic assault rifle. Drake’s accuracy with that weapon was much higher at longer range, and he was feeling pretty good about himself when Jack burst his bubble.

“Something to remember. Most shots fired in combat don’t hit their target. If we get into trouble, I’ll do the shooting that will take out the bad guys. You shouldn’t wait for the perfect shot. Just start blasting away when I tell you.”

“Why? This seems pretty accurate to me.”

“It is. Against a sandbag. But in an actual combat situation, everything happens fast, your nerves are tightly wound, you’re probably shaking, the enemy is moving, it could be dark, sweat in your eyes…there are a lot of variables. The best advice is to avoid situations where it’ll come down to shooting. If you do have to shoot, do so to get away, not to play hero. Because the chances of you doing any better than a combat soldier are pretty slim. And all due respect, you’re not a marksman.”

Jack saw the flare of anger on Drake’s face. “Look, almost nobody is. That’s why the perfect weapon for home defense is the pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with double-aught buck. It has a decent spread, which increases your chances of hitting something. For our nightly guard duty we’ll be using those and our handguns. But the handguns are mostly for last resort, because if they’ve gotten close enough for you to stand a chance with one, they probably have a better chance with theirs.”

Dusk was approaching when they called it a day and headed back to the lodge. The air was cold, with a mild breeze that rolled in waves across the tall grass, and the darkening sky was streaked with veins of peach and rose as the sun dropped into the horizon. Drake’s shoulder ached from the hundreds of rifle rounds he’d fired, and he was dizzy from the ocean of information Jack had thrown at him. But in spite of that, he felt a confidence that had increased through the practice, and he resolved to spend the following day honing his gun skills, so that if he ever did have to use one, he’d be more than potentially dangerous.

The one takeaway he’d gotten from Jack’s demeanor was that he was expecting the worst, and Drake had spent enough time around him already to understand why his father had placed so much stock in his abilities. Whatever Jack’s faults might be, he was lethal, and his business was that of the warrior. If a battle-hardened fighter was worried, then Drake had every right to be, and wouldn’t let down his guard, no matter what.

Chapter Fourteen

For the next two days, Drake drilled intensively with Jack, with Allie joining them to refresh her skills. By the second evening, Drake was able to hit any target Jack could. That night, after a relaxed dinner, they settled in for sleep, and Drake dozed dreamlessly until Allie woke him with a cautionary finger held to her lips and her SIG Sauer pistol clutched in her hand. Drake quickly shook off his drowsiness when he saw the fear in her eyes.

“What?” he whispered.

“I already woke my dad. One of the cans rattled. Get your stuff and be ready to move.”

Drake sat up, fully dressed, as Jack had insisted they all sleep, and groped around in the dark for his shoes and backpack. He pulled them on and shouldered his bag, and then grabbed the Ruger shotgun he’d been assigned and flipped the safety off. With his free hand he lifted the SIG Sauer from the nightstand and quietly chambered a round, then decocked the hammer and slipped it into his waistband as he followed Allie down to the ground floor, feet feeling for each step, his eyes adjusting quickly to the near-total darkness.

Jack was near one of the windows at the front of the house, staring into the night, his weapon the modified AR-15, with an aftermarket burst mode, steadied against the back of a heavily stuffed chair. When he heard them approach, he leaned to the side and murmured.

“Something’s out there. Allie, you take the rear of the house with your shotgun. Drake, you take the window on the right side by the vehicles.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to take one of the windows up on the second floor? Better visibility of the area,” Drake murmured, and Jack shook his head.

“No. If all hell breaks loose, then you’re trapped up there. This way, you can make a break for it. Just do as I say. If you see anything move, shoot it. Don’t think, don’t hesitate. Just blow it in two. But don’t go off half-cocked. Make sure it’s a human. No point in starting a war with a raccoon.”

“Do you think it’s a raccoon?” Allie whispered.

“No. Get to the back. If I was doing this, fifty-fifty chance I’d try to come in the back once the can went off.”

“What are you going to do?” Drake asked.

“Once you’re in position, I’m going to hit the exterior lights before they have a chance to cut the power. Assuming they haven’t already. Maybe we’ll get a look and be able to take them out.” Jack swallowed hard. “Barring that, on my word, run for the truck and jump in the bed. Assuming I’m alive, that is. If I am, I’ll drive us out of here. If I’m not, Drake, you do the driving, and Allie, you take the bed. Anyone tries to follow you, empty the shotgun at ’em. Understand?”