The Survivalist - 02 (25 page)

If Jimmy had been telling the truth, Bowie would be at the cemetery, perhaps allowing Mason to do a quick grab and run. If he had lied, or if things had unexpectedly changed, there would almost certainly be a good deal of bloodshed. While Mason had no desire to kill the men and women who had picked up arms in the name of their town’s militia, he would not hesitate to do so if his or Bowie’s life were in danger.

Mason turned and ran north until he saw the familiar yellow brick of the courthouse building. He hid behind a large oak tree and watched as six armed men raced out of the back of the courthouse, heading west. Jimmy was at the front of the pack, waving them on. Mason figured that he had about twenty minutes before they realized he had intentionally drawn them out. As soon as they were out of sight, he hurried east.

After two blocks, he turned back north. The cemetery was dead ahead. Even before crossing Liberty Street, he could make out the image of a large dog lying on the hangman’s stage. It was Bowie. A man stood beside him, holding a rope that was being used as a makeshift leash. Neither of them noticed Mason until he came sprinting up along the edge of the cemetery, rifle held tightly against his shoulder.

Bowie scrambled to his feet and pulled hard on the leash. The man struggled to keep him under control while simultaneously trying to yank a revolver out of his belt. Mason stopped, steadied himself, and fired a single shot from the Mini-14. It made a high-pitched crack, and the man fell back, clutching his throat.

Bowie pulled free and launched himself off the stage. He leaped the small wrought iron fence and bounded high into the air, apparently hoping that Mason would catch him in his arms. Barreling into him with more than one hundred and forty pounds, the dog knocked Mason to the ground as effortlessly as if he were a child.

“Take it easy,” Mason said, wrestling the ecstatic dog off him.

Bowie pressed in tightly, licking and scrubbing against him.

“That’s a good boy,” he said, holding him close and slipping the rope from his neck. “I’ve got you.”

Bowie whined and lay against Mason, his tongue snaking in and out of his mouth in anticipation of more affection.

“We’ll have time for that later. Right now, we’ve got to get out of here.” He stood up and surveyed the area. The single shot from the .223 rifle hadn’t drawn much attention. A woman across the street was peering out her open window, but she seemed more curious than threatening.

“Stay close,” he warned.

Bowie’s ears tipped back as they always did when he realized that danger was near. Then he raised his nose into the air and sniffed, attempting to sort friend from foe.

Mason led them back the way he had come, hurrying across Liberty Street. He had only made it halfway across the street before realizing that getting out was not going to be as easy as getting in. Alexus and six of her deputies rushed out from the courthouse, barely two blocks way. They turned and started walking his direction, uncertain of exactly what they were witnessing.

Mason squatted down and brought the rifle up. Two blocks was not particularly far, but shooting while unsupported at moving targets was a challenge. He took his time and fired three shots. The first shot hit the lead man in the chest, sending him to the ground. The next two missed their marks as Alexus and her henchmen raced for cover.

Engaging in a firefight against multiple attackers from the middle of the street was not something Mason could hope to win. He ducked down and darted the rest of the way across the street with Bowie now leading the way. Rather than retreat into one of the buildings, he hurried around it, running into a small alley that snaked between buildings.

A man suddenly popped around the far corner of the alley holding a .50 caliber, Desert Eagle, semi-automatic pistol. Without even bothering to aim, he began firing. With each squeeze of the trigger, the weapon belched flame and a thunderous
boom
sounded. A garbage can next to Bowie exploded as a huge slug punched a hole through it.

Mason ran towards him, shooting the Mini-14 from the shoulder. The distance was close enough that the first bullet found its mark. The man fell back, clutching his gut, the Desert Eagle dropping from his grip.

Bowie raced ahead to tear into him, but Mason called him off.

“Come on! No time!”

They ran across an empty parking lot toward a thick wooded area. A barrage of gunfire sounded from behind them, the air whistling as bullets sliced through the air. As they ducked into the trees, a volley of jacketed lead splintered tree trunks and snapped branches. Mason wheeled around and dropped prone, pulling Bowie down with him.

He looked back across the parking lot to see eight men clustered together on the other side, roughly two hundred yards away. They hurried forward, obviously figuring they had their prey on the run. Mason took careful aim with the Mini-14 carbine and squeezed the trigger. The first bullet dropped the man spearheading the attack, striking him in the center of his chest. Unlike Hollywood action movies that show people flying off their feet, the 55 grain .223 slug barely moved him at all. He simply stumbled and then pitched forward, as the bullet pierced his lung and right coronary artery.

For a moment, the other seven men seemed unsure how to react. Mason helped them make up their minds by firing two more bullets, hitting one man in the head, and a third in the shoulder. Both were out of the fight. That left five men, all of whom were now hugging the pavement.

Bowie growled and tried to stand up. Mason reached over to calm him. Like the feudal samurai battling the advent of gunpowder, the dog wouldn’t last long in any kind of ranged fight. Up close and personal, he was more than any one man could handle, but he was no match for an opponent with a rifle and fifty yards between them.

“It’s okay,” he said in a soothing voice, petting the dog. “You’ll get your chance later. Easy, boy.”

Bowie slinked over and started licking the side of his face.

Mason lay there for several minutes, enjoying the dog’s affection while watching the parking lot. The men on the ground slowly got their courage back, first rising to their haunches and finally to a standing position. Two of them broke off to the left, running toward Liberty Street, probably going for reinforcements. The other three continued ahead, staying close together as if that somehow ensured their safety.

Mason waited until they had taken about ten steps before popping off six more rounds. All three men fell on the ground, moaning and crying.

Rather than continue his retreat to the southeast, Mason skirted the parking lot and ran west. He figured that Alexus would try to get her men ahead of him. By reversing direction, he hoped to once again evade the bulk of her forces.

He made it as far as the courthouse before running into trouble. As he stepped around the corner, he nearly bumped right into Alexus and four of her lieutenants. She was busy giving them instructions on where to position their men. The entire group was standing in a circle not more than twenty-five feet from him, but they were so engaged in the hunt that no one had yet to notice that their prey was standing right behind them.

Mason was pretty sure he could have ducked right back around the corner without being detected, but he stood his ground. He had done enough running. Instead, he pushed his jacket back off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground behind him. Then he set the Mini-14 down and placed his hand on butt of the Supergrade—a weapon that he had truly mastered. Bowie peeled away and began circling to their right, tail tucked and teeth bared.

The sound of Bowie’s growl caused everyone to spin and face them. Two men held rifles, and the other two had long guns slung across their backs. Realizing that they would never get to them in time, they brought their hands to hover over holstered M&P 9 mm pistols. Alexus didn’t have a firearm, but she wore a full-size Marine Corps Ka-bar knife on her belt. She rested her hand on the pommel, with the air of an Amazon hunter about to quarter her prey.

“Marshal,” she said with a big smile, “I was beginning to think that you had outsmarted all of us.”

Mason nodded to her.

“I had hoped to avoid this bloodshed, but we are where we are.”

The group started to spread out as everyone sidestepped into the center of Liberty Street. People stared out windows and doors like patrons at an old western saloon.

“I suppose you’re planning to shoot all five of us,” she mocked.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether anyone wants to surrender.”

Alexus snickered, and several of her men laughed, looking to one another to make sure they were all in on the joke.

“Not hardly.”

“Then, yes, I’m planning to shoot all of you.”

“You’re a ballsy fella. I’ll give you that.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I wonder if you’re really as good as you think you are.”

“It shouldn’t matter to you whether I’m that good or not.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m going to shoot you first. Those who survive can talk about what happened next. You won’t be in on the conversation.”

“You’re not going to shoot me,” she said in a seductive voice. “You’re too noble for that. I don’t even have a gun.” She tugged at the knife to emphasize the point.

The four men spread about five feet apart, two on either side of her. Mason played through the draw, sequencing from left to right. He would hit the two on the left, skip Alexus unless her blade was out, and then come back to pick her up as needed. Two seconds for all five tops. Another second to double up on any who needed it.

While three seconds was amazingly fast, it was also a long time to keep from getting hit in a gunfight. Mason took a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming his heart and steadying his hands. He was horribly outnumbered, but he had one distinct advantage. He wouldn’t hesitate. All he needed was something to give him even the slightest edge on the draw.

“I want you men to understand something,” he said.

They stared at him, each working hard to keep their hands from shaking.

“I do this for a living. I figure I’ve drawn a pistol more than ten thousand times.” He let the words sink in. “I’m guessing that’s about nine thousand more times than all of you put together.”

The men exchanged glances, uncertainty beginning to shine in their eyes.

Mason continued. “I shoot 230-grain jacketed hollow-points. The good news is that, once they enter your body, they’ll stay in one piece. The bad news is that the tips will mushroom until they’re about the size of a dime. Given the current state of medical care, the chances of your surviving a bullet wound to the chest or abdomen are close to zero.”

They looked to each other again. This time the uncertainty had been replaced by raw fear. Their questions were obvious, even if unspoken. How could he be so confident? Was he really that fast? Who would he shoot first? Were they going to die in the next few seconds?

The man furthest to the right shifted nervously, sweat trickling down his face.

“Y-you should just give up,” he said, his voice shaking almost as badly as his hands.

Sensing his partner’s fear, the man next to him reached over and patted him on the shoulder.

“Get it together—”

Mason pulled.

The first shot hit the man on the left directly through the heart. He never even had a chance to raise his rifle. Mason sidestepped to the left, shifted his aim, and fired at the next man over. The man was just starting to pull the M&P from its holster when the bullet tore through his liver and lodged in his right kidney. Mason skipped Alexus because, although she was drawing the knife, her feet remained fixed in place. At twenty-five feet, she would still require a little time to close the gap.

By the time he adjusted his aim, the third man had swung his rifle forward and was squeezing the trigger. Unfortunately, in the stress of the moment, he had forgotten to remove the thumb safety. He was frantically squeezing the trigger when Mason’s third bullet punched out the back of his head. Mason pedaled backwards, hoping the movement and extra distance would disrupt the final man’s aim. An instant before the man pulled the trigger on his M&P, Bowie’s mouth latched onto his arm. The bullet chipped out a piece of asphalt, and the gun flew out of his hand as Bowie slung him to the ground.

The dog bit into the man’s forearm, and he screamed as he tried to beat the animal off. With a powerful jerk of his head, Bowie shook the man’s arm so hard that it dislocated both his elbow and shoulder. He screamed even louder and draped his working arm across his face, hoping to protect himself. Bowie never let up, shifting his attack from the man’s arm to his throat. They wrestled for several seconds, but it was clear from the beginning that the man would not be getting back up.

Alexus stepped toward Bowie, raising her knife into the air.

Mason shifted his aim and shot her in the butt. She teetered sideways and then fell back, moaning as the knife clattered to the ground.

She rolled over and stared at him, her eyes flashing with hate.

“Why?” she cried. “You could have had everything! The town, the militia—even me!” Her voice softened, and tears leaked from her eyes. “Why?”