Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7)

by Arthur Bradley

  Mason offered a friendly wave and continued his steady advance.

  The men looked to one another, amused as much as anything. What kind of fool approached four armed men with a smile and a wave?

  When Mason got to within about ten yards, he stopped. Bowie stood by his side, his tail tucked and hair on end.

  Larry looked Mason up and down, moving a wad of chewing tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “We help you with somethin’?”

  Mason pushed aside his jacket so that his badge and gun were both visible.

  “U.S. Marshal.”

  Lincoln immediately pulled Leila around in front of him, jamming his revolver into her ribs. She grimaced, flinching away from it.

  For his part, Larry seemed unshaken.

  “That badge supposed to scare us?”

  “I don’t know. Does it?”

  He spat to one side. “Nope.”

  “Scared or not, I’m going to need for you to release the woman and put your weapons on the ground.”

  All four men shared in a nervous chuckle.

  Larry stepped a little closer, and Bowie let out a growl.

  “Marshal, I think you got it wrong.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Look around you,” he said, puffing out his hairy chest. “Ain’t nobody here bein’ arrested.”

  “I never said anything about arresting you. The truth is, you men are what we in the Service call unreformable.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that nothing I say or do is going to wash the filth from your miserable souls.”

  Larry tightened his grip on the rifle.

  “I don’t believe I like your tone.”

  Mason let his hand rest on the grip of the Supergrade.

  “Then you’re really not going to like what comes next.”

  A nervous smile tickled Larry’s lips, and he glanced over at Lincoln.

  “You ever seen anythin’ like this? This lawman’s batshit crazy.”

  “Come on now, Marshal,” coaxed Lincoln, “there’s enough to go ‘round. Whaddya say? We’ll lube her up a bit, an’ you can have what’s left.” He leaned in and licked Leila’s cheek, sliding his tongue all the way from her chin to the corner of her eye. She cringed but didn’t try to pull away. Lincoln smacked his lips. “Honest to God, this one tastes just like butterscotch.”

  “I’m going to start counting,” Mason said in an even tone. “If I get to three and you haven’t dropped your guns, I’m going to kill you. If you raise your weapons, I’m going to kill you. And if you touch the woman again—”

  “Let me guess,” sneered Larry. “You’re gonna kill us?”

  Mason squared himself. “One.”

  Lincoln shifted his feet as he looked over at Larry and then to the other two men. All of them seemed off balance, uncertain about what the hell was happening. It simply didn’t make sense. One man didn’t draw on four.

  Of the entire group, Mason considered Larry to be the least dangerous. While he was the only one holding a rifle, he had to get clear of a 140-pound wolfhound—not something a man of his size was likely to do. Lincoln, on the other hand, was the wildcard. With his revolver stuck into Leila’s ribs, he could kill her before anyone could stop it. But if he shot her, not only would he lose his prize, he would also lose his cover. While Mason couldn’t be certain, he thought there was a good chance that Lincoln would do nothing, choosing instead to watch things unfold behind the safety of a hostage. It was a gamble to be sure, but gunfights were never anything more than a series of gambles.

  “Two.”

  “Marshal, you gotta be a damn fool—”

  “Three.” Mason’s pistol cleared his holster before the word was even out of his mouth.

  Bowie too seemed to understand that negotiations were over, and he lunged toward Larry.

  Mason swung left, squeezed off a round, swung back to the right and squeezed off a second, barely catching sight of the two nameless men as they stumbled back and fell, blood oozing from dime-sized holes in their sternums. He swung back and fired a third round, catching Larry in the throat a split second before Bowie tackled him to the ground. Gurgled screams filled the air as the man attempted to fend off the dog while choking on his own blood.

  Mason sidestepped and let his pistol settle on Lincoln. The man had ducked behind Leila, one arm going across her throat while the other reached around to press the revolver against her chest.

  “Jeezus, Marshal!” he wheezed.

  Mason stood motionless, sizing up the situation. There was no clean shot.

  Leila stared into his eyes, searching for something, perhaps a quick nod indicating that she should try to create an opening. He offered none. If she moved, Lincoln would likely panic and shoot her.

  For a few seconds, neither man moved as they listened to Larry’s choked cries begin to fade.

  “Drop your gun,” commanded Lincoln. “Do it now!”

  Mason met the man’s stare. “No.”

  “I’ll shoot her. I will.”

  “I believe you.”

  That seemed to confuse him. “You gonna let me shoot her?”

  “I can’t see that I have much choice. You’ll shoot her, and then I’ll shoot you.”

  “She’s still gonna be dead.”

  Mason nodded. “More than likely, yes.”

  “You gonna watch her die? Just like that?”

  “No. I’m going to watch you die. Just… like… that.” He said the last three words slowly, drawing them out to make his point.

  Lincoln moved his fingers around, trying to dry the sweat forming on his hands.

  “This is bullshit. You know that, right?”

  “No argument there.”

  Bowie had finished with Larry and was turning toward Lincoln, a deep grumbling growing in his chest.

  “Easy, boy,” said Mason.

  Lincoln looked toward a mobile home to his left.

  “She and I are goin’ in there, and you best not try an’ stop us.”

  He pulled Leila sideways and took a small step. When he did, Mason shifted the Supergrade and shot him in the foot. The man screamed and immediately ducked back behind her, hopping up and down.

  “You bastard! You shot my damn foot off!”

  “And I will continue to shoot you until you let the woman go.”

  “I’ll kill her!” he said, jamming the pistol against her ribcage.

  Leila bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  “We’ve been through that already.” Mason kept his voice even and calm, hoping that it would keep the man from doing something rash.

  They stood facing one another for a long minute, neither of them sure what to do next.

  Lincoln finally bent forward and wiped his brow on the back of her shirt.

  “Okay, so how we gonna get past this?”

  “Simple. Toss the pistol away and drop to your knees.”

  “I do that, and you’ll shoot me sure as shit.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re mean. That’s why.”

  Mason chuckled. “My father’s mean. I’m determined. Believe me, there’s a difference.”

  “I got your word you ain’t gonna shoot me?”

  “As long as you behave.”

  Lincoln glanced down at the three fallen men, perhaps picturing himself lying beside them, bleeding out. After a moment, he reluctantly held the revolver out to one side with the gun dangling from his fingers by the trigger guard.

  “There. Happy?”

  “Toss it away.”

  He lobbed the pistol into a plot of tall grass.

  “Now, let the girl go.”

  Lincoln slowly released his grip.

  Leila jerked away and rushed toward Mason. As she did, he saw Lincoln’s hand slip behind his back. Mason leaned left, searching for a clean shot, but Leila was directly in his line of fire. Desperate to create a gap, he dove sideways wit
h the Supergrade extended in both hands like a wide receiver trying to catch a football. As soon as the muzzle cleared Leila, he rapid-fired the remainder of the magazine, four shots issued so quickly that they sounded like a submachine gun. Only one of the four hit Lincoln, but it caught him in the ocular window, perfectly centered between his eyes. The man’s arms grew stiff, and then everything relaxed, his legs crumpling beneath him.

  Leila instinctively froze, closing her eyes as bullets whizzed within inches of her face. When she heard Lincoln fall, she turned and found Mason dusting off the knees of his trousers.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine. You?”

  She used the back of her hand to wipe the last bit of saliva from her cheek.

  “I’m tired of being licked, but otherwise, yes, I’m good.”

  Bowie wandered over to inspect Lincoln, taking a long moment to sniff a wet stain spreading across the man’s crotch.

  “I’m curious about something,” said Leila.

  “What’s that?”

  “When he demanded that you give up your gun, did you consider it? Even for a second?”

  Mason inserted a fresh magazine, let the slide go forward, and holstered the pistol.

  “The way I see it, there are times when things aren’t going to end well no matter what you do. Might as well hang onto your gun.”

  “I get that,” she said softly. “But how did you know he wouldn’t shoot me?”

  “I didn’t.”

  She cut her eyes at him. “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “Perhaps not, but I figured you’d rather take a bullet in the gut than spend a single minute in there with him.” Mason nodded toward the trailer. “Was I mistaken?”

  “No,” she said, bending down to pick up her Beretta, “you most certainly were not.”

  Chapter 2

  Samantha awoke to the sound of dried wood crackling in the fireplace. The room was already warm, and there was the unmistakable odor of coffee brewing. She sat up and pushed off the blanket. The living room of the Abner Cloud House was empty except for their bedrolls and backpacks.

  “Tanner?”

  There was no answer.

  She leaned over and picked up the Savage .22 rifle.

  “Tanner?” she said again, louder this time.

  Still nothing. More than likely he had gone outside to pee. The man had a bladder the size of a walnut.

  She stood up and moved closer to the fire. A small pot hung from a swinging crane arm. She used a rag draped on a hook beside the fireplace to peek under the lid. Inside was a wet mash that looked like soupy worm dirt. No doubt Tanner was brewing another batch of his “cowboy coffee.” She set the lid back in place. If coffee was brewing, he was somewhere nearby.

  Her stomach growled.

  She glanced at the backpack lying beside Tanner’s bedroll. There were pouches of various freeze-dried foods inside, including chili mac and beef stroganoff, neither of which sounded particularly appetizing for breakfast. What she really wanted was pancakes, with butter and warm maple syrup.

  Her stomach let out another rumble.

  “Fine,” she said, “we’ll eat. But let’s find Tanner first.”

  She went to the front window, pushed aside the curtains, and peered out. Tanner was kneeling beside the canal that ran behind the historic house. There was something big and white dangling from one of his hands. It looked like a pillowcase, but she couldn’t be sure.

  She grinned. “Probably stealing Dr. Jarvis’s silver and burying it out in the yard.” Tanner was not above taking anything that he thought might prove useful.

  Before going outside to investigate, Samantha decided to clean up a bit. She retrieved her toothbrush and carefully scrubbed her teeth, spitting the paste and excess water into the fire. Next, she took a rag, poured a little bottled water over it and washed her face, neck, and underarms. Finally, she attempted to tame her tangle of hair using an ornate brush that she had picked up when they were staying at the Naval Observatory. When that failed miserably, she opted instead to pull it back into a tight pony tail. With basic hygiene taken care of, she put everything back away and headed outside to check on Tanner.

  The early morning air felt cool as she stepped from the cozy home. It was still officially summer, but falling leaves and brisk evenings foretold of weather that was soon to change. Birds sang and squirrels darted in the trees overhead as she walked across the gravel lot and down toward the canal. The waterway was perhaps ten or fifteen feet across and shallow enough to walk through if one didn’t mind getting their shoes wet. On the other side, paved trails led down to Fletcher’s Cove, the marina where she had first learned to row.

  As Samantha came up behind him, Tanner glanced back, instinctively reaching for the shotgun by his feet. When he saw her, he smiled.

  “Got us some breakfast.”

  She stepped closer and peered over his shoulder. A large gray and white bird lay at the edge of the water. Tanner had already started plucking some of its feathers, tossing them into the murky green water.

  “What is it?’ she said, eying the bird.

  “What do you mean what is it? It’s a goose.”

  “You killed a goose?”

  “I did.”

  “What for?”

  “To eat, of course.”

  Samantha squatted down next to him and examined the dead animal.

  “Did you shoot it?”

  “Didn’t have to. It brought the fight to me.”

  “So, what… you strangled it?” She looked down at the goose and made a pained expression.

  “No, I didn’t strangle it,” he said, looking slightly offended. “What do you think I am, a barbarian?”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “I broke its neck, of course.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re incorruptible.”

  “I think you mean incorrigible.”

  “That too.” She ran her hands over the soft feathers covering the animal’s neck. It was still warm. “Are you sure it’s safe to eat?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Because?”

  “Because animals eat other animals. It’s nature’s way.”

  The need to eat animals was a discussion they’d had many times before. And despite her reservations, it usually ended with her picking warm juicy morsels from the bone of some unfortunate little creature. It was, as he said, nature’s way.

  She looked at the hundreds of feathers still covering the bird.

  “Even so, it looks like an awful lot of work.”

  “Hard work makes food taste better. You know that by now. Or you should, anyway.” He slid the bird closer to her. “Now quit your yapping, and give me a hand.”

  She grabbed one of the large feathers and gave it a quick tug the way she had seen him do. It pulled free. Not knowing what else to do with it, she tossed it into the water. The fluffy trail of feathers drifted along the canal like ghostly white canoes down the River Iss.

  When they had finished plucking the larger feathers, they began pulling out handfuls of the finer down. Samantha had an easier time of it because her hands were small enough to get a good grip on the soft feathers. When they had plucked all but the very finest tufts, Tanner grabbed the bird by its feet and lifted it into the air.

  “We’ll singe off the small stuff when we get back to the house. You got your knife?”

  “Of course,” she said, reaching around to pull a small fixed-blade knife from the sheath that ran horizontally along the back of her belt.

  “Good. Use it to take the wings off.”

  She fanned a wing out, felt around for the shoulder joint and used her knife to cut it in two. When the wing came free, she gently set it on the ground and repeated the process on the other side. Thankfully, there were only the slightest dabs of blood at the joints.

  Tanner raised the bird a little higher.

  “Now the head.”

  Samantha reached down and cupped the head with he
r left hand. She placed the edge of the blade about midway up the neck.

  “Here?”

  “A little closer to the body. With all this meat, we’re not likely to eat the neck.”

  She cringed. “You can eat a neck?”

  “You can as long as you’re willing to get your teeth down in it.”

  She stuck her tongue out. “Gross.” Without further protest, she began to saw the blade through thick cords of muscle and bone. It was harder than she had expected, but she finally pushed through the other side. Placing the head on the ground, she said, “I feel like a butcher.”

  “Is that bad?”

  She nodded toward the bird. “For him it is.”

  Tanner grinned. “Just wait. The good part’s coming up.”

  “What you call good is never good,” she muttered.

  He squatted back down next to the water and laid the bird between them.

  “Come closer, darlin’. It’s time to take out the…” He hunted for the right word.

  “Guts. You might as well say it. They’re guts.”

  He chuckled. “Right you are.”

  “Am I going to get bloody?”

  “All the way up to your elbows.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “Fine,” she said, pushing up her sleeves. “All I can say is that it had better taste like chicken.”

  As they finished picking the last bit of golden brown meat from the bones, Samantha retrieved the wet rag and took a second pass at cleaning herself up.

  “Well?” said Tanner. “Good, right?”

  “A little fatty if you ask me,” she said, wiping a layer of grease from around her mouth.

  Tanner carried the bony carcass over to the front door and slung it outside.

  “Something for the raccoons.”

  “Dr. Jarvis isn’t going to like coming home to find animal bones in his front yard.”

  “I don’t care what that man likes,” he said, letting out a small burp.

  She went to the window and looked out.

  “Where do you think he is?”

  Tanner moved up beside her. “Can’t say.”

  “He probably needed supplies.”