Mason flipped the table up to act as a shield and lunged forward. The tabletop crashed against the big man, knocking him onto his haunches and pinning the muzzle of the shotgun to the wall. With his shoulder pressing against the table’s underside, Mason used his right hand to draw the thick Fällkniven blade that hung from his belt. He brought it overhead and drove it down as if chipping away at a block of ice. The tip of the 6.3-inch cobalt steel blade lopped off Hoss’s left ear and opened a gash along his cheek.
Hoss screamed, dropping the shotgun to shove the table away.
As he was lifted into the air, Mason brought the blade down again. The knife pierced the side of the junker’s neck, cutting through his carotid artery and larynx. Hoss let out a gurgled scream, and his arms buckled under the weight of the table. Mason reared back again, this time driving the heavy blade through the top of the man’s skull.
Hoss collapsed and lay still as the table settled over him.
Mason gave the knife a tug. Stuck. He cranked it from side to side, cracking the skull to create enough of a gap to break the suction of the man’s brain. Sliding the knife free, he wiped the bloody blade on the leg of Hoss’s trousers and inserted it back into its sheath.
Mason moved the table aside. Hoss’s eyes were open, and tiny rivers of blood raced down his face. Remarkably, he was still alive.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Mason muttered softly. “You knew it would eventually end this way. If not here, then somewhere else.”
Hoss said nothing as his face slowly lost its color.
Mason reached down and picked up one of the fentanyl lozenges. He popped open the plastic sleeve and gently inserted the lollipop into Hoss’s mouth. The big man made no move to stop him, nor did he offer thanks.
“That’s all I can do to ease your suffering. I suspect it won’t last long.”
Mason picked up his M4 and turned to face the living room. No one came rushing through the front door. That was the good news. The bad news was that there remained two men with shotguns outside.
A couple of options came to mind. The first was to take another go at reasoning with them. They were, after all, seemingly of slightly better character than their older half-brother. The problem with that choice was that it put him, Jessie, and Bowie at their mercy. And while there were exceptions to the rule, Mason had found the old saying about blood being thicker than water to be poignantly true. Few men could easily move past seeing their brother lying in a pool of blood. Such images brought with them a desire for justice, and if not that, revenge.
That left Mason with but one way forward. He would have to kill Bartley and Kyle. It was unfortunate, but then again, killing always was.
With the decision made, he turned his attention to coming up with a viable plan. Even if he had his Supergrade in hand, there was simply no surefire way to put down both men before one squeezed off a shot. He would have to come at them in a way they didn’t expect.
A thought came to mind. It was the kind of stunt that was probably best saved for the newest Jason Bourne movie, but at the moment it was all he had.
Mason reached down and dug through his pack, coming up with a single 5.56 mm cartridge whose only distinguishing mark was a dull black tip. He had commandeered a handful of the M995 armor-piercing rounds when intercepting a band of illegal arms traffickers some months earlier. While conventional M855 green tip ammunition typically did a better job on soft tissue, the tungsten core of the M995 was designed to offer better penetration, especially at long ranges. For what he had in mind, penetration would be paramount.
He ejected the magazine from his M4, cleared the chamber, and loaded the M995 round onto the top of the stack. There was no need to load more than one armor-piercing round, as this would be a one-shot, winner-takes-all kind of event.
Ammunition was only part of the equation. He also had to get into position, not to mention pull off the shot of a lifetime.
Mason pushed his way through the back door and headed around the far side of the house. He veered off, exiting the backyard and ducking into a grove of oak and pine trees. Once he was sure that he was far enough away not to be detected, he circled around until the junkers came into view. Bartley and Kyle stood side by side, perhaps six feet apart. Jessie knelt in front of them with her arms still wrapped around Bowie’s neck. The dog had settled down and was now doing his best to give her the tongue bath that she was obviously requesting.
Bartley and Kyle were growing nervous. That much was clear from the way they shifted their feet around. For his part, Bartley was doing his best to lean around to see through the front door but apparently not having much luck. Kyle, meanwhile, was eyeing Jessie with an interest that went beyond passing curiosity. Perhaps he was weighing the merits of adopting his older brother’s views on taking whatever he wanted. The one thing Mason could say for certain was that they weren’t going to stay put much longer. Once they separated, his window of opportunity would be closed.
Mason thought that the best way to kill both men instantly would be a simultaneous headshot. Sure, there were other ways of killing two people with a single bullet, but aiming for the thoracic cavity with hopes of piercing both men’s hearts felt more like a “close your eyes and cross your fingers” type of gamble.
He brought the M4 to his shoulder and checked the sight picture. Too far right. He took three wide steps to the left and checked it again. Almost there, but the height difference of the two men would cause one to take a bullet to the ear and the other to get away with a haircut. He took another half-step left and dropped to one knee. One more quick check of the sights, and he settled for it being good enough.
There wasn’t a branch or rock nearby to rest the rifle on, so Mason pressed the stock against the nearest tree for support. Iron sights. Eighty yards. An easy shot. Easy if he wasn’t trying to hit two volleyball-sized objects that were moving around like fishing bobbers.
He took in a breath, let out half, and watched as the muzzle slowly settled. His finger applied slow steady pressure to the trigger, knowing precisely where and when it would break.
Boom!
The gun bucked, and he forced it back down in case a second shot was needed.
It wasn’t. Both men had fallen.
Mason scrambled to his feet and raced forward, the stock of the rifle pressed to his shoulder. Seeing him, Bowie pulled away from Jessie and bolted toward his master. They met halfway between the house and the trees, and together they advanced on the fallen men. Jessie had retreated to stand beside her front door, her hand resting on the handle.
Mason approached the two junkers. It was not a pretty sight. The bullet had entered Bartley’s right temple and exited through the opposite brow, taking with it a three-inch chunk of skull. Together, bullet and bone fragments had torn through Kyle, leaving him looking like he had taken a shotgun blast to the face.
Bowie sniffed Bartley’s leg and then looked back up at Mason.
“I know,” he said with a heavy voice. “But I didn’t see another way.”
“Marshal?”
He turned to find Jessie cautiously approaching.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Me? You’re the one I’m concerned about.”
“I’m fine,” she said with a quick shake of her head. “It’s not the first time men have come to my home intent on taking things.” Despite the tough talk, her voice trembled slightly.
Mason instinctively put an arm around her. She stiffened for a moment and then slowly settled against him. There were no words to make things right. All he could say was, “I’m sorry.”
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
“Sorry? For what?”
“I brought armed men to your home. That’s on me.”
She reached up and placed a warm palm against his cheek.
“No. These men brought themselves here.” She paused. “I do want to ask you something though.”
“All right.”
“Why d
idn’t you just give them what they wanted?”
“In my experience, when a man realizes he can take anything you have, he won’t stop at your belongings.”
“What do you mean? What else is there to take?”
Mason said nothing as he stared into Jessie’s sparkling brown eyes. She was young and desirable. Not only to him, but to any man, a prize that she probably didn’t even fully understand at her age.
“Me?” she said.
“I couldn’t take that chance.”
Her eyes clouded with tears. “You, sir, are a good man.”
He offered a slight smile. “Tell me that after you see what I’ve done to your kitchen.”
Chapter 5
Tanner kept to his planned route, traveling east on Highway 421 before turning north onto Highway 11. Having a nun onboard made for a quiet ride, with Samantha occasionally humming a tune from the backseat and Sister Mary Margaret compulsively rubbing the silver crucifix that hung around her neck.
After nearly an hour of not speaking, Samantha couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Have you been a nun a long time?” she asked, leaning forward between the seats.
“Since I was twenty-eight years old,” Sister Margaret said, not bothering to turn toward her. “I joined the monastery right after leaving the Army.”
“The Army?” Samantha looked at her as if trying to ascertain how much muscle might be hidden beneath the nun’s habit. “What did you do for them?”
“Believe it or not, I was a combat medic.”
“Wow, that’s so cool! Were you in World War II?”
Sister Margaret cut her eyes toward Samantha.
“I most certainly was not.”
“Surely not World War I. You can’t be that old.”
The nun cleared her throat. “At the monastery, we have a policy that children are best seen and not heard.”
“Really? That must be terribly boring. Tanner and I talk all the time, don’t we, Tanner?”
“Yep,” he said. “There’s never a moment of peace.”
She reached forward and patted his shoulder.
“He’s kidding, of course. We talk about all kinds of stuff, everything from gypsies to the fights I get into at school.”
Sister Margaret turned to Tanner. “Your daughter gets into fights at school?”
“On occasion.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“As long as she wins.”
Sister Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Children fighting is not something to be condoned.”
“Oh, he doesn’t condone it,” offered Samantha. She thought for a moment. “Actually, I think he might. But at least I haven’t had to pull my knife on anyone yet.”
“Your knife!”
Samantha drew a fixed-blade knife from a sheath along the small of her back. Its razor-sharp edge glistened against the blade’s black boron carbide coating.
“See?” she said, holding it up between the seats. “Tanner says everyone should carry a knife. Don’t you carry one?”
“I most certainly do not.”
“Why not? They’re super handy. You can skin a piece of fruit, carve a spear, cut rope, and of course, slice someone, but only if you absolutely have to. Truthfully, if it comes to that, you’re usually better off with a gun.”
Sister Margaret turned to Tanner, frown lines forming on her already wrinkled face.
“This is no way to raise a child.”
“You tend to your flock, Sister, and I’ll tend to mine.”
“Fine, but you do realize that you’re not raising a sheep—you’re raising a wolf.”
“Not a wolf, a sheepdog.”
“You’re raising me to be a sheepdog?” Samantha said, not at all sure that she liked the thought of being transformed into a woolly animal with fleas.
“There are folks, like the good sister here, who depend on others to keep them safe,” he said, trying to explain.
“They’re the sheep?”
“Exactly. Then there are others who sit on the hill and watch for trouble.”
“Ah, the sheepdogs.”
“You got it.”
“A sheepdog,” she said, pursing her lips. “I guess I’m okay with that. They’re kind of cute, right?”
“The cutest.”
Sister Margaret shook her head, but said nothing more.
Sensing that the conversation wasn’t quite as friendly as she first took it to be, Samantha put her knife away and moved to change the subject.
“What do you know about the children’s asylum? Is it spooky? It sounds spooky.”
Sister Margaret hesitated, obviously weighing the merits of continuing the conversation.
Samantha stared at her expectantly until she finally acquiesced.
“The DeJarnette Center has a troubled history, one that everyone living near Staunton knows well. It opened in 1932 as a sanitarium for wealthy people with substance addictions and serious mental afflictions. It was quite posh, with tennis courts and a golf course.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“By itself, no. But there was a dark side to the center too.”
“What kind of dark side?”
“Their doctors practiced something known as eugenics.”
Samantha looked to Tanner for an explanation.
“Eugenics was a pseudo-science that promoted sterilizing the mentally ill and moral degenerates of the world.”
“Sterilized? Like with alcohol?”
“No, dear,” said Sister Margaret. “Sterilized as in making it so that they couldn’t have children.”
Samantha made a face. “How could they keep people from having children?”
“Dr. DeJarnette and those working under him forced such individuals to have surgery.”
“Surgery? Like removing their baby-making parts?”
Sister Margaret nodded. “That’s right.”
“Who gave them the right to do that?”
“It might surprise you to learn that the Supreme Court did.”
“The Supreme Court said that it was okay to operate on people who didn’t want it? You’re sure it was the Supreme Court?”
Tanner grinned. “You have no idea what the Supreme Court is, do you?”
“Of course, I do,” she said, crossing her arms. “They were the court that decided the most supreme things, like who got to have babies.”
“Clever beyond your years.”
Sister Margaret said, “It was only after witnessing Hitler’s extremism that Americans came to reject the idea of selective breeding for the creation of a superior race.”
“Did they operate on kids too?”
“Not for that purpose, no. In fact, children didn’t come to the center until the 1970s, when it transformed from a private institution to a state-managed healthcare system.” She hesitated. “There were, however, rumors about experiments conducted on children as well.”
“What kind of experiments?” Samantha asked, not sure that she wanted to hear the answer.
“Infecting them with horrible illnesses, starving them, confining them for weeks at a time, even shocking them with electricity to see if it might change their behavior.”
Samantha looked over at Tanner, her face wrinkled up like she had just licked a lemon.
“It’s like you say. People are awful.”
“Always have been, always will be.”
They drove for a while in silence, passing through the communities of Chilhowie, Marion, and Atkins. As they neared the town of Wytheville, they spotted a young man and woman walking along the side of the highway. Both carried backpacks and looked like they hadn’t enjoyed a bath in quite some time. As soon as they saw the Power Wagon, they turned and stuck their thumbs out.
Tanner sped up.
Sister Margaret said, “A Christian lends a hand to those in need.”
“Doesn’t apply. I’m Buddhist.”
“Even so. But for the grace of God, that could be you an
d your daughter.”
Tanner wasn’t biting, but Samantha took the nibble.
“Maybe she’s right. They’re probably tired of walking, and we’re headed in the same direction anyway. What could it hurt?”
Tanner growled, slowly moving his foot onto the brake. By the time they came to a stop, the Power Wagon was thirty or forty yards past the hitchhikers. The man and woman hurried forward, approaching from the passenger side.
As they drew closer, Samantha started second-guessing her suggestion to stop. The man’s face was covered in a scraggly beard, and a bright red scab circled his neck, like he had recently been the victim of a botched lynching. His face was pocked with acne scars, and his nose looked like it had been broken so many times that it no longer knew which way was up. The woman looked only slightly better, with greasy bleached-blonde hair, thick bags under her eyes, and a crusty cold sore on her upper lip.
“I thought we’d never get off this road,” the man said, bellying up to Sister Margaret’s half-open window. When he saw how she was dressed, he blurted, “Are you a real live nun?”
“I most certainly am,” she said with a thin smile.
The man turned to his traveling companion.
“Look, Deb, a real live nun.”
“A what?” The woman pressed closer. “Jesus, Billy, you’re right!” She reached in through the window and touched Sister Margaret’s habit. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a nun. I once knew a stripper who dressed like a nun, but that probably don’t count.”
Sister Margaret said, “We’d be happy to give you a ride if it might help to lighten your load.”
“That’d be right neighborly of you,” Billy said, taking a step back so she could open her door. As it swung open, he reached behind his back and pulled a Bersa Thunder 380 semi-automatic pistol from his waistband. “On the other hand, maybe we’ll lighten your load a little.”
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed, shrinking back.
The Survivalist (Freedom Lost) Page 5
