The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  “Don’t take offense, but I’ll need to check.” Keeping Wilde in his peripheral vision, Mason started down the narrow hallway that led to three doors. Two were sitting open, one leading to a small bathroom and the other to a bedroom. He ducked his head inside each and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  The third door was not only closed, it had a small padlock across the jamb.

  “What’s in here?” he said, jiggling the lock.

  “Just junk I’ve collected over the years.”

  “Come open it.”

  “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “You can either open it, or I’ll kick it in. These little homes aren’t particularly sturdy, so there’s a good chance I’d take part of the wall with it.”

  Wilde reluctantly got to his feet and came over to the door, Bowie on his heels. He pulled a small key from his pocket and opened the padlock.

  Mason nodded toward the door. “After you.”

  He sighed and pushed open the door.

  “I can explain.”

  Mason seriously doubted that. Before him was a workshop worthy of Thomas Crown. A long wooden workbench sat along one wall, its top littered with necklaces, rings, and watches. A jeweler’s loupe and several small calipers lay beside them. To one side of the bench was a pegboard filled with an assortment of locks, and to the other a coatrack with several neat bundles of rope.

  “Why, Mr. Wilde, you’re a thief,” Mason said, stating the obvious.

  “I can assure you that I came by all of this quite legitimately.”

  “Oh I’m sure,” he said, shaking his head. “The truth is I don’t care what you’ve stolen. I’m here for another reason.”

  The words “don’t care what you’ve stolen,” seemed to cheer the man up.

  “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “Yesterday, you acquired some dresses for a man. Shortly afterward, you told the owners that he had stolen them. Why?”

  Wilde’s eyes flickered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Mason grabbed him by the arm. “Fine. We’ll go see the old woman outside. Did I mention that her son has a rifle?”

  “Wait,” Wilde said, planting his feet.

  “Why? Is your memory coming back?”

  Wilde’s face twisted with worry. “You have to understand. No one was supposed to get hurt, at least not there on the street.”

  “Go on.”

  “A few months ago, I was accused—quite wrongly I might add—of helping myself to a few worthless trinkets. It was nothing more than a harmless misunderstanding, really.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Even so, I found myself in a bit of a predicament. My captor gave me a choice. I could either be arrested and forced to participate in that barbaric shooting competition, or I could help him to find criminals and other ne’er-do-wells living within the camp.”

  “You became his inside man.”

  “If that means a victim of his blackmail, then yes.”

  “Who’d you make the deal with?”

  Wilde hesitated. “If I tell you that, I’m quite dead. And despite these miserable conditions,” he said, looking around the home, “I still place some small modicum of value on life.”

  Mason decided not to press the point, at least not until he had all the facts. Once he did, he was confident that Bowie could help to loosen the man’s tongue.

  “This nameless person who unfairly blackmailed you, did he do it to have participants for the tournament?”

  “Only in part. He truly was trying to clean up the camp. The fact that the offenders end up in the tournament was, in his words, ‘a fortunate side effect.’”

  “Then why’d you frame Jack? He doesn’t live here, and he certainly wasn’t a criminal.”

  “Well that’s just it, now, isn’t it? When you clean up, you eventually run out of dirt. And for a man in my predicament, running out of dirt is tantamount to announcing that I’m no longer useful.”

  Mason felt his anger rising, and he squeezed the man’s shoulder.

  “You do realize that you sent a stranger to die to protect your own hide.”

  “Easy,” he said, grimacing. “Remember, I was just a pawn in all this. I’m not the one you should be mad at.”

  “You’re saying that your blackmailer knew what you were doing?”

  “Of course he knew.”

  “Then I ask again, who—”

  The living room window suddenly shattered, glass spraying into the home. It was followed by a steady thump, thump, thump as bullets punched through the thin sheet-metal walls.

  Mason shoved Wilde into the small workshop and dove in after him. As they fell to the floor, Bowie raced over.

  “Lie down, boy,” he said, pulling the dog down beside him.

  They listened as bullets ripped through the living room, knocking pictures from the wall and shattering an oil-filled lamp that fortunately had yet to be lit.

  Wilde pushed up on all fours and began crawling for the door.

  Mason lunged for him, barely missing the man’s ankle.

  “Stay down! You’re going to get yourself shot!”

  Wilde never slowed as he disappeared around the corner.

  More gunshots sounded, but this time the bullets began walking their way down the length of the home. So much for trying to stay out of the line of fire.

  Mason slipped an arm around Bowie and dragged him out into the hallway, the goal being to put as many walls between them and the approaching shooter as possible. Items disintegrated all around them. Crosses fell from walls, light fixtures exploded, and puffs of sheetrock filled the air.

  He looked left and right for a way out. Exiting through the back door would require going through the shooting gallery that was once the living room. The only window along the rear of the home was in the bathroom, and it was too small for a 140-pound wolfhound. Mason used his knuckles to tap on the floor, wondering whether he could tunnel his way out. No good. The joists were too closely spaced.

  The mobile home was a perfect kill box, easily penetrated by a rifle round and nearly impossible to return fire from with any degree of accuracy.

  “Wilde!” he shouted. “We need to get out of here!”

  The Englishman appeared at the end of the hall, awkwardly crawling on his hands and knees, the violin case clutched to his chest. The wall beside him exploded in a white dusty puff as a bullet ripped through the sheetrock. He shrieked and toppled sideways, a fine spray of blood filling the air around him.

  Mason laid his hand on Bowie’s back.

  “Stay!”

  The dog flattened himself against the floor, his head whipping from side to side as he watched the home being torn up around them.

  Mason high-crawled over to Wilde, bullets whizzing overhead. The man was alive, but based on the profuse bleeding, the bullet had hit the aorta or one of its coronary arteries. He had maybe thirty seconds before losing consciousness, and twice that before dying.

  Wilde pressed a hand against the entrance wound, but that did nothing to stem the flow of blood coming out the other side.

  “I’m hurt,” he choked.

  No, thought Mason, you’re dead.

  “Who are you working for?”

  Wilde stared at him, his face slowly turning white.

  “I told you,” he breathed. “He’ll… kill… me.” His eyes drooped and then closed.

  Dead man or not, he wasn’t getting away that easy. Mason grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

  “Wake up!”

  Wilde’s eyes slowly reopened, but they were glossy and distant.

  “Come on, man. Tell me! Who was it?”

  A thin smile came to his lips.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “What’s beautiful?”

  “The music.” Wilde’s head tilted to one side, and his mouth fell open.

  He was gone.

  Mason sighed as he reached forward and closed the man’s br
ight blue eyes. Death was the ultimate escape, and not even a determined marshal could take justice beyond the grave.

  He looked back at Bowie. The dog was confused and frightened by what was happening around him. Mason recalled a mantra that he and other rangers had adopted.

  When in doubt, move.

  He grabbed the violin case and hurled it through the front window like a grenade into an enemy encampment. A hail of bullets hammered the window frame and surrounding wall as the shooter tried to zero in on his target.

  “Bowie!” he shouted, scrambling for the back door. “Let’s go!”

  Bowie hopped up and raced down the hall, nearly climbing over Mason as they pushed their way out the back door. Together, they crashed through a small bannister and landed atop one another in a thick pile of leaves.

  Mason drew the Supergrade and scanned left and right. It was clear. He rolled Bowie off and rose to a crouch. Bullets continued pelting the home, some of them passing all the way through both sides. Hoping to get clear of it, he bent at the waist and raced toward the front of the mobile home.

  As the street came into view, the old woman stepped out from behind the car with a semi-automatic pistol in her hands.

  “You’re as guilty as he is!” she shouted, wildly squeezing the trigger.

  A bullet ricocheted off the mobile home’s trailer, and the next two snapped branches on a nearby bush.

  Mason had no desire to kill the old woman, but even less to be killed by her. Seeing no other choice, he dropped to one knee and fired the Supergrade. At nearly thirty yards, trying to wound was simply not an option. The bullet ended up going higher than he had intended, striking her in the bridge of the nose. Her head whipped back, and she toppled lifelessly to the ground.

  Bowie rushed ahead and disappeared around the front of the mobile home. As soon as the wolfhound cleared the corner, he spotted Lucas. The man was running toward his mother with the Bushmaster cradled in both arms, shouting “Momma!”

  Bowie went straight for him, leaping up at the last moment to latch onto his upper arm. The collision sent them both toppling to the ground.

  Lucas screamed as he tried to push away the massive dog.

  Bowie snapped and snarled, ripping off two of the man’s fingers.

  Blood streaming from the nubs, Lucas reached forward and grabbed Bowie by the mouth, desperately trying to hold him off. But Bowie was simply too powerful. He shook his head free and lunged for the man’s face. One of his lower canines went up Lucas’s left nostril as his upper teeth punctured the top of his scalp. Lucas let out a horrific screech, which ended abruptly when Bowie shook his head from side to side, breaking the man’s neck.

  By the time Mason reached them, Bowie was standing over the dead man, growling as if he wasn’t entirely sure that Lucas was dead.

  Mason looked left and right. A bullet-ridden home and bodies lying in the street confirmed what he already knew. It was time to go.

  “Come on, boy,” he said, wheeling around.

  Together, they raced behind the row of homes, scrambled up a small hill, and disappeared into the night.

  Mason was covered in a cold layer of sweat by the time he opened the door to the RV. To his surprise, Jessie was there, waiting for him.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, ushering Bowie inside.

  “Well, hello to you too.”

  He looked both ways before ducking inside and closing the door.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. But I thought we agreed that you and Jack would head home.”

  “We did. But as we got to the front gate, I realized I couldn’t leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d made a promise.”

  “What promise?”

  “To take care of Bowie if something happened to you. How could I possibly do that if I wasn’t here?”

  He stared at her. What she said made sense. Unfortunately, it also put her right back in harm’s way.

  “What about Jack? Where’s he at?”

  “I made him leave.” Before Mason could ask how she had managed that, she added, “If he stayed, he knew he’d be putting us all in danger. He’s waiting for us at the motel we passed on the way in.”

  “I’m betting he wasn’t happy about that.”

  “No, but Daddy knows when he can win a fight and when he can’t.”

  “And he wasn’t going to win this one, is that it?”

  She smiled. “He complains that I have too much of my mother in me, even though we both know that’s a good thing. But,” she said with a shrug, “if you’d rather I leave…”

  “No,” he said, more quickly than he had intended.

  She moved closer, her eyes probing his.

  “No? Why not?”

  That was a question Mason didn’t want to think too hard about, so he said only, “Let’s just say that everything seems a little less dreary when you’re around.”

  A smile spread across her face, and they stared at one another long enough for butterflies to find their way down to his stomach.

  “Now,” she said, breaking the spell, “let’s get you two something to drink.” She lifted a bottle of water out from one of the cabinets and poured part of it in a bowl for Bowie, handing the rest to Mason. “What were you doing out there, anyway?”

  “Trying to figure out what happened with your father.”

  “And did you?”

  “It was Wilde, just like we thought. He was being blackmailed to find criminals for the tournament.”

  “Do you think…”

  “What?”

  She shrugged. “I was just going to ask if you thought your marshal friend might have been behind it.”

  Mason had given that question considerable thought while ducking between bushes. With Wilde’s passing, there was really no way to know for certain. Leroy’s self-proclaimed mission was to bring justice to people who thought they could escape it, not fabricate crimes for purposes of drawing a crowd. Even so, it was possible that what had started as a way to root out evil had become something else.

  “I don’t know for sure,” he said. “But I plan to ask him.”

  “He might not appreciate your directness.”

  “Leroy knows what he gets when it comes to me.”

  “Even so, you should be careful.”

  Mason nodded thoughtfully.

  “If he’s not involved,” she said, “maybe he’ll cancel the tournament.”

  “Maybe.” Mason tried to sound reassuring, but if anything, Jessie seemed more worried.

  “He’s not going to do that, is he?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “That means you’re going to have to face those terrible men.”

  There seemed no point in denying it.

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him, unable to put words to her concern.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said softly.

  “I sure hope so.”

  “It’s sweet of you to worry about me.”

  Jessie put on a bright smile. “Who says I’m worried?” She reached down and gave Bowie a good pat. “I was just thinking this monster would eat us out of house and home.”

  Mason stripped off his shirt and sank into the camper’s foam mattress. He closed his eyes, wondering what the next day would bring. Not only would he be fighting for his life, he might very well have to kill for sport—something that didn’t sit well with him at all. Add to that the need to question Leroy and Ramsey and his day was sure to be the very definition of the word “dangerous.”

  A warm hand touched his shoulder, and he opened his eyes with a start. Jessie knelt on the floor beside his bed. Thanks to the moonlight shining through the camper windows, he could see that she was wearing a light pink sleep shirt with nothing underneath.

  “Jessie, what—”

  She touched a finger to his lips.

  “Do you remember saying that someday someone would have the good fortune of sharing in my beauty?”

  The
camper suddenly felt as if the air had been sucked from it.

  “I remember,” he breathed.

  She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his.

  “I think you could use some good luck about now.”

  Mason put his hands on her shoulders and gently pressed her away. It was the hardest thing he had done all day, and that included escaping from the mobile home of certain death.

  “Jessie…”

  “Mason.” Her mouth turned up into a seductive smile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t right.”

  “It isn’t? Are you sure?” She kissed him again, this time tickling his lips with her tongue. “I mean really, really sure?”

  He pushed her away again. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Believe me, I do. But you’re so—”

  “Beautiful?”

  “I was going to say young.”

  “I’m not a child.” She slid his hand down to her breast. “I’m not.”

  “I know that,” he said, swallowing. He willed his fingers to pull away, but for some reason, they didn’t seem to hear him.

  “You’re afraid you’d be taking advantage of me.”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be.”

  “I wouldn’t?”

  “Of course not.” She ran her hand down his chest, unhooked his belt, and slid it free. “I’m going to be taking advantage of you.” She slid a leg over and straddled him.

  Everything about her was warm and inviting, and Mason’s voice failed him.

  “So, it’s settled then,” she said. It didn’t sound like a question.

  “It’s not just that,” he confessed.

  “What else?”

  “I’m not ready for, you know, something serious. There was Brooke and—”

  “I’m not Brooke.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  “Besides, it’s not like I’m asking for a proposal.” She leaned down and kissed him again, long and hard this time. When she spoke, he could feel her warm, sweet breath on his face. “This is about something else.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about a girl getting her own real live cowboy. You wouldn’t deny me that, now, would you?”

  He said nothing. Really, what was there to say?