Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  I felt two impacts to the center of my chest, pushing me back and collapsing the air in my lungs. My bullet spanged off the concrete seven rows up, completely missing Spock. I rode with the movement, letting the momentum pull my arm to the left, bringing the two thugs with the MP-5’s into my line of fire. They were both jerking their weapons up for a shot. I nailed the first one in the throat, the second one in the stomach, hip and thigh. Spock grabbed up Amber, an action which robbed him of the title “mister” in my book, and threw another round that punched into my stomach. I landed on my butt on the hard concrete, dazed and dizzy, feeling sick from fear and adrenaline and pain. I rolled, my instincts taking over, and heard chips of cement rattle as a bullet smacked into the floor of the stage. Sounds took on a muffled, elongated quality that seemed to stretch forever. The thug with the bullet in his throat aimed his MP-5 in my direction and I saw fire spit in a long stream from the barrel. Bullets screamed overhead whacking against the walls behind me.

  The shed doors burst open and I saw Tom shoot the man in the back of the head. He dropped like a wet sack of potatoes. Tom turned and aimed at Spock. Spock jerked Amber in front of him and double tapped Tom so fast it sounded like one shot. I saw blood spray and Tom fell back into the shed.

  Without thought, I fired three rounds into Spock’s exposed back. He flared, his arms going wide, and dropped Amber, who fell screaming to the hard rock of the seats.

  I pushed on, pumping round after round into Spock, spinning his body so I hit him in the stomach — chest — the back again. My gun ran dry, locking the slide back.

  A shadow loomed from above me and reactively I hit the button of the transmitter. A shotgun blasted and rock shattered in front of my face. I ducked, falling backward, and saw Pilgrim hit the man on the boulder behind and above me. The man fired into him and they both fell fifteen or so feet onto the stage. I heard bones snap and prayed they weren’t Pilgrim’s.

  The uphill slope ended in a five foot wall that continued the trail upward. Max took the jump, the nails of his back, right paw losing traction on the slippery rock and giving way, smacking his knee into the hard stone. But he was beyond that now and regained his gait taking another jump, this time over six feet and through a hole the size of a manhole cover. He made it, his head just scrapping through and coating his fur in dust and pebbles. Beyond that rose the entrance to a cave. Here the scent blew so strong that Max could hardly contain the growl bubbling up his throat. But he was too good a hunter for that. He steeled himself, pushing back the overwhelming desire to rush into bloodlust, and moved forward slowly, slinking low like a big cat stalking its prey. The battle would come, but man was a dangerous animal with weapons he couldn’t understand and wouldn’t again underestimate. He crept along, moving through the shifting tunnel, dimly aware of the thousands of tons of rock above him making him feel cramped, closed in, trapped.

  The light was dim here, the sun’s power pinched at both ends, clutching the dark and the cold in the grip of the rock.

  Max found the sniper at the end of a curved path leading into an open alcove that broke out on the side of the rock revealing a crystal clear swath of blue sky beyond.

  The man was pointing a rifle.

  All was chaos. The world spun and shifted as I gained my feet, looking for Amber and Spock, my vision blurred to a narrow tunnel. My mouth felt dry as dust, my tongue swollen and three sizes too big for my mouth. It stuck to my cheeks and the roof of my mouth. I tried to produce spit, but there was nothing.

  I saw a flash of sunlight reflected off glass from the cave in the side of Creation Rock. My mind snapped back to the night my wife and daughter were murdered, when I’d seen the same type of flash. I was too late then, and I was too late now. I realized I was about to die. Spock had been smarter and more resourceful than I’d thought. He’d gotten a sniper up there somehow and now I had no place to hide and the bullet proof vest that absorbed the rounds from Spock’s handgun would be useless against a supersonic bullet from a .308. There was no way I could reload and shoot him before he pegged me, but I had to try. I dropped the magazine from my gun, snapped in a replacement and let the slide go forward chambering a round.

  The man knelt on the ledge of the cave, a rifle tucked into his shoulder. The sniper’s attention was on something below, allowing Max to walk right up on him. Max saw the drop below and instinctively timed his attack. He could not afford to go into frenzy — not here — not now — the drop would kill them both. Max grabbed the man by the bicep and jerked back — hard. The man, balanced precariously, stumbled, dropping his weapon and landing on his side. He jerked back, pulling a knife from his boot and slashed at Max. Max let go. The man was halfway to his feet when the tension released. He tumbled backward, over the edge, arms pin-wheeling, fingers grabbing at empty air as though he could somehow defeat the law of gravity. He fell.

  Max walked out on the ledge, saw the Alpha far below. He turned back into the cave and made his way down to him.

  I heard a scream and watched as a rifle fell from the cave, clipping an outcropping and spinning out and down until it shattered on the rocks below. A second later, a body followed, only it didn’t shatter when it hit bottom, it splatted.

  I looked back at the cave and saw Max’s head peer out from the dark. How?

  No time.

  Sight, sound, smell, all returned in vivid detail. The sun shone brighter, splashing against the sides of Creation Rock and Ship Rock, and cresting the tops of the highest seats, making them glow. The rumble of a jet’s engine high overhead thundered in the theater’s near perfect acoustics. The smell of cordite and sulfur stung my nostrils and teared my eyes.

  I spun, searching for Spock’s body. Gone. Along with Amber. I ran to the north, around the side of the stage and down the stairs, taking them five at a time. He couldn’t have gotten far. I had to catch him, I had to save Amber. I saw my daughter’s body huddled in the carseat, her forehead scraped and bleeding; crying. My wife reaching out for her. The flames and the noise. And the boots as they walked toward us, clicking insanely loud on the asphalt.

  I pulled myself away from the memories, taking the last of the steps in a great bound. My feet hit, knees giving to absorb the impact. A car raced away to the south, tires screeching as it took a hairpin corner. And then it was gone.

  Amber was gone.

  44

  I ran over to Tom and found him lying on his back amid a jumble of lighting equipment. Blood pooled in the indentation that rested at the bottom of his throat just above the collarbone. I saw a puckered hole in the center of his chest and another, high on the outside of his right shoulder. Blood sopped his shirt and a small puddle had formed beneath his head. I jumped down into the recess of the shed and threw the equipment off him. I ripped his shirt down the middle, stripping buttons in an easy flow. The Kevlar vest I’d made him wear stopped the chest shot, just as my vest stopped mine, but the one in the shoulder missed the wide strap that connected the front plate to the back plate. Swiping away the blood on his throat, I saw it had run down from his shoulder wound. I lifted his head, running my fingers along his skull, searching for a bullet hole, but instead found a gash where his head hit the equipment or the floor. I checked his pulse and his breathing, both were steady and strong. He’d live.

  Pilgrim.

  I climbed out from the shed and looked to the stage. Pilgrim lay beneath the man he’d fought on the rock. I grabbed the man by his hair and belt and tossed him aside. A bullet had ripped Pilgrim’s stomach and side open. Blood soaked his fur. He’d taken the brunt of the fall. Both canines on the right side and several of the molars were shattered. I felt along the underside of his neck and shoulder and side. The neck felt alright, but the shoulder was a squishy mass of destroyed bone. He was unconscious but still alive. My eyes burned and I had to fight the compulsion to stick my gun against the thug’s temple and put him away. If he woke up I wasn’t sure I could control myself.

  Please wake up.

  Jerkin
g my cell phone out I dialed 911 with shaking fingers. Nothing. I looked down and saw there was no signal. I almost threw the phone against the side of the mountain.

  I sprinted to the top of the seats, taking them two rows at a time and reached the upper lip of the amphitheater out of breath, my heart racing and fear eating at my insides. Nothing had gone right. Tom was wounded, Amber was gone and Pilgrim lay close to death. Yeah, a great plan. Everything had worked out just fine.

  A signal. My phone had a signal. I punched in 911 and heard an annoying beep telling me the phone’s battery was low. A second later the phone died completely. What good is a warning that doesn’t give you enough time to do anything about it? My high dollar iPhone disintegrated against the asphalt of the upper parking lot.

  By the time I made the bottom, Max sat waiting for me, licking his scrotum as if he hadn’t just killed two men. I handcuffed the unconscious thug to the pole railing at the front of the stage. I loaded Tom and Pilgrim into the Escalade and raced down the mountain. Amber was my biggest concern, but I knew how to get to Mr. Spock. I just had to pray he wouldn’t kill her before I could get to him.

  The closest hospital was Lutheran. I took C-470 at a hundred and ten, screamed off onto I-70 going east, passing cars and trucks, ignoring the honks and dirty looks and obscene gestures that faded in my wake. I got off at Kipling and tooled back to 38th hooking east. Stopping in front of the Emergency Room, it was a close bet as to which was smoking worse, my brakes or my tires. I ran in, grabbed the first gurney I saw and ran it back to my car. I loaded Tom on and hauled him inside. Grabbing another gurney I ran back out, loaded Pilgrim on and pushed him into the Emergency Room where a doctor, dressed in surgical blues, stopped me with upraised hands.

  “Whoa — whoa — whoa there. Where do you think you’re going with that animal?”

  “He’s hurt. You need to help him.”

  “This is a hospital, not a vet clinic. You wheel him right on back out to your car there. We have sanitation standards here for crying out loud.”

  I moved to the side and started around him. He jumped in front of the gurney. I saw two armed security guards coming toward us in a hurry.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Well you’re going to have to make some time here, fella. That man you brought in has a bullet wound. The police are going to want to talk to you. And as for this animal, he needs to be out of here right now.”

  The two guards came up alongside the gurney. One was average build, young, with a scar on his cheek like the original G.I. Joe. The other guy was in his fifties, balding with a good sized pot belly.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Pot Belly.

  The doctor didn’t even look at him as he spoke. “This man is trying to bring a dog in here. And he dropped off a man with a gunshot wound.”

  Pot Belly put his hands in his pockets and pursed his lips. “Is that right?”

  The young kid with the scar pulled out his service weapon in one smooth move and pointed it at me.

  “What are you doing?” asked Pot Belly.

  “Did you just hear the doctor?” said The Kid. “He said this guy just brought in a shot guy. He might be the shooter.”

  The Kid impressed me. His hand was steady, the barrel of his weapon aimed right at my chest. I figured him for a former soldier and by the cut of him he’d seen some action. He made me feel old. I changed his name in my mind from Kid to Scar Face.

  “Look,” said Scar Face, indicating my chest with the gun, “those are bullet holes in his shirt.” Yup, Scar Face was impressive. But he was young and he was standing way too close to me for his own good.

  Pot Belly, his hands still in his pockets, looked close at my shirt. His expression changed. He started to pull his hands from his pockets.

  I really didn’t have time for this. Amber was in danger. I put my hands up in the universal gesture for surrender, took one step to the side, slanting my body as I did, shoved out with my left palm, moving Scar Face’s wrist to the outside, gripped the top of his weapon over the slide, curved it in toward his wrist, pulled back and slipped the gun into my own hand. The kid stepped back, hands empty, face white.

  Pot Belly’s eyes got real big.

  “Just keep your hands in your pockets, pal,” I said, “and no one will get hurt.” I looked at the doctor. “First off, I didn’t shoot these two, they’re my friends. Second, I’m one of the good guys. And third,” I looked at the doctor, “you are going to take care of my dog here, his name is Pilgrim, and if you don’t, or if you try and ship him out of here and he dies because of it, I will come back here and you will be sorry. Do you understand me?”

  He nodded.

  I stopped smiling and let him see my dog eyes. “Do you believe me?”

  He gulped, loud and with effort, the way you do when your mouth has gone all dry. He nodded again.

  I backed out of the Emergency Room doors, keeping the gun aimed at Scar Face. I wouldn’t put it past him to have a backup weapon, and youth has a certain misconception of its own invulnerability. “You get this back when I’m sure I don’t need it for the good doctor over there.” The automatic doors closed in front of me and I hopped in the car and started for Colorado Springs.

  45

  I scouted the building, looking for the Mercedes Mr. Spock drove off in. I circled the building three times but it wasn’t there. The building was large, modern and new, packed with reflective windows that mirrored the perfectly manicured lawns and fountains and bronzed statues that decorated the landscape. I should have a plan, but I didn’t. I decided on the direct approach.

  The receptionist at the front desk looked up from her computer as I stepped up. She was gorgeous, with long, silky, brown hair, high cheeks, perfectly formed lips and gun-metal blue eyes. Those eyes took me in, and dark thin eyebrows, as perfectly manicured as the lawns outside, rose in surprise. I looked a mess.

  I smiled. “What floor is Mr. Doors’ office on?”

  She regained her composure quickly, the sign of a real pro. “Is he expecting you?”

  “Not exactly. It’s sort of a surprise.”

  She reached under the counter, very naturally, as though placing her hand on her lap. I expected the uniforms to show up any second. “Well, let me check here,” she said, tapping a few keys on the computer.

  A door opened down the hall and a familiar face swaggered toward me wearing his traditional Men in Black suit and nearly black sunglasses. It was Governor Arnie’s big brother, the fifth guy from the limo, the one who had muscles on his muscles and that cute little goatee.

  I smiled back at the receptionist again. “Never mind. I’ll ask him.” I reached under the back of my shirt, slipped out my handcuffs, slid them over my knuckles and turned, punching muscle head on the point of the chin. His huge head snapped back and then forward, his face stunned. I grabbed his wrist, keeping him from pulling out the gun.

  That punch felt good. These people murdered a teenage boy, kidnapped his baby sister, shot her father, hurt my dog.

  I hit him again on the exact same spot, a red line opening through the center of his goatee. His head shot back again, but this time his knees sagged and I grabbed him by the front of the shirt and jerked him forward. It was like pulling on a tree. His chest felt like a steel bulkhead.

  “What floor is Door’s office on?”

  He shook his head, his eyes rolling.

  I hit him again, the metal of the cuffs opening the line wider. Blood dribbled out and pattered on the plush carpet. He almost went out, I had to use all my strength to keep him up.

  “T — top floor,” he blubbered. His lips were stained red. He must have bit his tongue. That had to hurt. “Fif — fifteen. Fifteenth floor.” I let him drop, smiled at the beautiful receptionist and went to the elevator.

  It was maybe the slowest elevator I’d ever been on. I kept the cuffs on my knuckles, expecting more trouble. I stopped on the fourteenth floor, slipped off and let the
elevator continue on to the fifteenth. I went through a long section of cubicles filled with people talking on phones and joking around and getting coffee from the break room.

  The stairwell was down the hallway and around the corner. People hardly noticed me. I went into the stairwell and up the stairs. I cracked the door on the fifteenth and saw a clear hallway. Slipping inside, I snuck up to the corner and spotted five security guards waiting. The bell dinged and the doors opened. I didn’t wait. I went the other way. Most office buildings hold to a circular design, but this was the master suite, the floor where the bigwigs worked. There were no cubicles, no gregarious workers talking and laughing and drinking coffee. There was a long reception area by the elevator where the guards were standing, and a series of doors branching off from both ends, running the length of the hallways. The walls were adorned with floor to ceiling sized posters of what I assumed were their best games, displayed in ornate frames that cost more than my house, car and office building combined. I went to the farthest end of the hall and opened a door with a gold plate on it that read Louis Hepperman Vice President. Inside was a man in a suit and tie, typing on a computer, behind a giant redwood desk. He looked up in surprise, taking off his glasses.