As soon as the door swung open, several things happened at once. Max rolled onto his back and fired three shots blindly toward the top of the door. Bowie raced ahead, snarling to get at his enemy. And Mason ducked around the corner, narrowly dodging one of the bullets.
Before Max could process what was happening, Bowie clamped down on his face and began dragging him into the room. He screamed in pain, firing once more into the ceiling before resorting to using his pistol to try to beat Bowie off.
Mason leaned over and fired two quick shots into Max’s chest. The man immediately quieted. Bowie continued dragging him into the kitchen, shaking from side to side until he felt the man’s head flop around freely.
The door swung shut, and Mason motioned for Bowie to come closer. It was doubtful that others would follow Max’s lead, but if they did, they would likely come in with guns blazing.
Mason waited for two full minutes before climbing down from the table. Wherever the other brothers were hiding, they weren’t going to be lured into the kitchen.
Connie stood up and raised a single finger.
“That’s one,” she mouthed.
He nodded, not entirely comfortable with her counting the dead like points in a soccer match.
Mason quickly searched Max Ward’s body, unsure of exactly what he was looking for. A radio would have been nice, or maybe a map showing where everyone was hiding. He found neither. The only thing of use was a Smith and Wesson seven-shot revolver, chambered in .38 Special. He reloaded it with rounds from Max’s belt and handed the weapon to Connie.
“I don’t know how to shoot this,” she said, letting it dangle from her fingers.
“You don’t know how to shoot a rifle either, but that didn’t stop you,” he said with a grin. “Besides, it’s easy. You wait until someone gets as close as we are now. Then you put it to their chest and squeeze the trigger. If they don’t fall down, you squeeze it again.”
“Okay,” she said, sliding the hunting rifle across her back and taking a better hold on the pistol.
Mason leaned down and removed the badge pinned to Max’s shirt. He took it for no other reason than to prevent anyone who might come across Max’s body from concluding that he was a fallen hero. A man who brutalized women and children deserved no such sympathies or respect. Next, he dragged the body back out into the hallway and used it to prop open the swinging doors. Light from the kitchen revealed an intersection up ahead.
“It’ll be dark from here forward.”
Connie’s only reply was to pull a small flashlight from her back pocket. Mason did the same, crossing his flashlight hand under his gun hand. Bowie looked back and forth between the two, perhaps wondering whether anyone had remembered to bring one for him.
“Your job,” Mason said, looking down at the dog, “is to keep us from getting surprised.”
Bowie tilted his head.
“You’ll figure it out. Let’s move.”
Mason stepped over Max’s body and eased out into the hallway. Bowie pushed past him and sniffed his way up to the intersection. The dog immediately turned to the right, but after entering the darkness, he stopped and waited for Mason and Connie to catch up.
As they turned the corner, it was as if a blanket had been thrown over their heads. They clicked on their flashlights, and the two beams cut through the darkness like neon headlights. The hallway went on for about twenty feet before turning back to the left. As had been the case earlier, Bowie seemed reluctant to take the lead.
“Can’t your dog sniff them out?” she whispered.
“He could, but he’d likely get shot for his troubles. It’s better if we stay together from here on in.”
They inched forward and peeked around the corner. The hallway opened up into the back of the stage house. They swept their flashlights around the large room. It was filled with racks of costumes, tall wooden sets, and various props used to support the shows. Two doors, both of them open, sat on the opposite wall.
Bowie made no attempt to enter ahead of them, instead choosing to press lightly against Mason’s leg.
Mason leaned back and whispered to Connie.
“Stay here while we check it out.”
She nodded.
He clicked off his flashlight and shuffled over to the nearest rack of costumes. Bowie stayed close by his side.
No one shot at them, nor was there any movement from within the room.
Mason took a knee and listened. Awareness, he reminded himself, was often more important than firepower. The only sound was that of Bowie panting. He motioned for the dog to circle around a large wooden set that had been painted to look like a French delicatessen.
Bowie blinked a few times but didn’t move.
Mason gave him a disapproving look and pointed a second time.
Bowie hung his head low and reluctantly trudged off in the direction of the large prop.
Mason immediately shuffled the opposite direction, figuring that together they would corner anyone who might be hiding behind the set.
As soon as he moved out from behind cover, a gunshot shook the room. It was as loud as any shotgun, although Mason was sure by the report that it was actually a high caliber handgun. The heavy slug ripped through the array of costumes and smashed into the opposite wall.
Mason rolled away from the blinding muzzle flash. He didn’t dare fire and give away his own position until he had a better idea as to where the shooter was located. He held his breath and listened. There was the faint scratching of Bowie’s nails across the wood floor. If he didn’t do something quick, the dog would find the shooter and likely take a bullet for his discovery.
Based on the quiet calm, he guessed that the shooter hadn’t moved much, maybe a few feet from his original position. To get any kind of decent shot, Mason would need to use the flashlight to get a quick glimpse of where he was hiding. But it would be a race. If the shooter was ready, he would instinctively shoot for the light, very likely beating Mason to the punch.
Employing an old FBI agent trick, Mason extended the flashlight out to the side as far away from his body as possible. He held his Supergrade directly out in front of him, ready to shift his point of aim in an instant. Once he was certain he had everything pointed in the right general direction, he quickly pulsed the flashlight.
For a split second, Mason saw Karl Ward kneeling behind a small couch, his huge pistol protruding around the corner. An instant later, a second thunderous gunshot rocked the room, this one sending a slug a few inches below his flashlight.
Mason returned fire, squeezing the trigger three times before his eyes could even fully process the brief snapshot. The burning gunpowder lit the room like magnesium flashbulbs, further destroying his night vision. Mason didn’t know whether any of his bullets had found their mark, but he couldn’t afford to be caught sitting still. He dove sideways, accidentally pulling down a couple of dresses from the rack behind him. As he hit the ground, Karl’s revolver exploded again, this time knocking over the large set that Bowie had been circling.
Bowie rushed by Mason, running directly toward the couch. One way or the other, the dog would be to Karl within a few seconds. Nothing was going to stop that. The best Mason could do was to give Karl something else to worry about.
He pushed up to his knees, clicked on his flashlight, and tossed it in Karl’s direction. Luck was on his side, and the flashlight landed such that the periphery of the beam lit the corner of the couch. Even though Karl was no longer visible, Mason wasted no time emptying his magazine into the couch, four shots so quick that the individual sounds were hard to distinguish.
Bowie scrambled over the top of the couch and tore into the man, biting and growling as he tried to shake the life out of him. There were no violent screams or defensive gunfire; the man was already dead.
Mason reloaded and carefully approached the couch. Karl lay sprawled out on the floor behind it. His body was a mess, blood seeping from four bullet hole
s and an even greater number of dog bites. Three of the bullets had hit him in the chest, and the fourth had punched through the bridge of his nose. Bowie stood over the body, studying it like a child might a broken toy.
Mason picked up his flashlight and quickly swept the room. No one else lay in hiding.
“Did you get him?” Connie called from the doorway.
“I’d say.”
She cautiously entered the room.
“Who was it?”
“Karl.”
“Good. Other than Joe, he was the worst of the bunch.”
Once again, Mason reached down and tore the badge from the man’s shirt, tossing it away onto a mound of garments. He also picked up Karl’s revolver, an enormous Ruger Redhawk, chambered in 454 Casull, a caliber with enough stopping power to drop a fully grown black bear. The weapon sported a six-inch barrel and a fiber optic front sight, which was especially useful in low-light conditions. The gun was unusual enough that Mason didn’t want to leave it behind but, at nearly five pounds fully loaded, it was far too heavy to stick in his waistband. He stuffed the hog leg back into its holster and unhooked the belt from Karl’s waist. Rather than strap it on his own waist, Mason slung the entire rig over his left shoulder.
Connie stared at the huge gun.
“Why would anyone carry such a large pistol?”
“I’m guessing he had size issues,” he said with a grin.
She laughed. “Now that wouldn’t surprise me.”
After doing a quick search of the rest of the room, they proceeded through the stage house and into a corridor with three sets of stairs going up.
“I’ve been here before,” he said. “The first set goes up to dressing rooms. The second leads to an audition room. That’s where I found Joe sleeping. It could be that Frank’s retreated to somewhere he knows.”
She nodded, shining her flashlight on the second set of stairs.
Mason led the way, taking special care at the landing not to get ambushed. The door to the rehearsal room was closed. He was fairly certain that he had left it open after dragging Joe out.
“Think he’s in there?” she whispered.
“Let me check it.”
He quietly took the last few steps, put his back against the wall, and leaned over to listen at the door.
There was the distinct sound of someone pacing back and forth across the room.
He reached across and gently tried the knob.
Locked.
Mason considered his options. Kicking the door in on an armed man was almost never a good idea. He would need to convince Frank to surrender. And that was something best done out of the line of fire. Walking as quietly as he could manage, he retreated back down a few stairs to stand beside Connie and Bowie.
“Frank, I know you’re in there,” he hollered up the stairs. Mason waited a moment before continuing. “Your brothers are both dead. If you want to have any chance of carrying on your family name, you need to open the door.”
Nothing happened.
“I’ll give you to the count of five. If you don’t open the door, I’m going to blow the lock and come in shooting.” Mason had no intention of trying to shoot his way into the room, but the threat sounded plausible enough.
There was a brief pause before a voice called out from behind the door.
“You promise you won’t shoot me?”
“As long as you put down your gun, I won’t.”
There was another brief pause as Frank considered the offer.
“I have your word?”
“You do.”
The handle moved slightly as Frank unlocked the door.
“I’m opening the door now. Don’t shoot.”
“Slow and easy, Frank.”
The door slowly swung inward, and Mason brought his Supergrade up at the ready.
“Let’s see your hands.”
Frank lifted his hands into the air. A pistol lay at his feet.
Bowie started up the stairs, his tail tucked and ears folded back.
“Easy boy,” Mason said, following him up.
Connie brought up the rear.
Frank backed into the room, never lowering his hands.
“Remember, you gave me your word.”
“I’m not going to shoot you.” He glanced over his shoulder at Connie. “The question is what are we going to do with him?”
Without hesitating, she stepped forward, put her pistol to Frank’s chest and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked out of her hand and fell heavily to the floor. Frank reeled back, clutching his chest, his eyes and mouth both open wide.
“Connie!” Mason shouted, stepping back and turning the Supergrade toward her.
She stood looking down at Frank with a calm expression, like a serial killer who had scratched a homicidal itch. Frank fell to his knees in front of her, his eyes drooping as a steady stream of blood pulsed out from between his fingers.
“You murdered him in cold blood,” Mason said, still reeling from the unexpected violence.
“No,” she said. “I punished him for what he did to me.” She stepped out of the way as Frank pitched face first onto the floor.
Mason felt his gut twist as he stared at the satisfied smirk on Connie’s face. How in the hell had he become a part of something so vicious? More important, what was he supposed to do now?
She saw him looking at her and put her hands on her hips defiantly.
“Don’t look at me like that. I told you they had to pay.”
“Not like that they didn’t.”
Bowie sniffed the fallen man and then turned back to look at Connie, his ears raised with curiosity.
“You can tell your dog to quit looking at me like that too. I came here for justice—”
Mason started to correct her.
She waved his words away.
“Justice, revenge, murder, call it whatever you want. My mother taught me not to let any man abuse me.”
Mason looked down at the fallen man.
“She’d be proud all right.”
She smiled, perhaps missing his sarcasm.
“Yes, she would.”
Connie bent down to pick up the revolver she had dropped.
“If you pick that up, you’re on your own.”
She looked up at him.
“Joe’s the worst of the bunch. I can’t let him walk away from this.”
“Maybe not, but I won’t be a part of his murder.”
“All right,” she said. “But are you going to stop me?”
He thought about it a moment. Joe Ward was a violent criminal who undoubtedly deserved whatever he got. Defending a man like him was not something Mason felt compelled to do. On the other hand, shooting an unarmed man secured to a pole was outside his definition of justice.
“I won’t stop you, Connie. But understand that if something goes wrong, you’re on your own. Bowie and I are done here.” He turned and left the room.
Bowie quickly followed, glancing back at Connie as she bent over and retrieved the pistol.
Mason and Bowie walked down the small flight of stairs, the dog’s claws clicking on the tile like a secretary’s heels. What bothered Mason most was that he had failed to see the hardness in Connie’s heart. A woman who would put a pistol to an unarmed man’s chest and watch him die was someone he didn’t want to be too close to. The fact that they had shared sexual intimacy was something he would have to reconcile later. All men can be seduced by beautiful women, he reminded himself. Often what sets them apart is finding the resolve to walk away.
Bowie glanced back and whined as he heard Connie coming down the stairs behind them. But he made no attempt to slow and check on her. It was clear that she was now outside the pack.
Mason passed through the backstage area and pushed through the heavy performance curtain. He swept his flashlight across the ornate stage, searching for the stairs down to the audience floor. As he walked toward the
exit, gunfire suddenly erupted—the quick burp-burp-burp-burp of automatic fire as bullets tore jagged holes in the wooden stage.
He instinctively dropped his flashlight and dove off the front of the stage, crashing into an array of folding metal chairs and music stands. Bowie landed beside him but with much less clatter. It took Mason a moment to realize they had landed in the orchestra pit at the foot of the stage. He tossed chairs aside and scrambled over to a short dividing wall that faced the audience.
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