Finest Hour (10 page)

Mason would have preferred to avoid stomping through the oil, but he had little choice if he were to retrieve his prize. He took a tentative step and nearly fell, as his boot slipped out from under him.

“Whoa,” he said, retreating to regain his balance.

It was a good twenty feet across the room, and his chances of making it without falling were about as good as walking a tightrope stretched between skyscrapers. He let out a sigh. There was really only one way to cross the oil, and it required getting dirty.

Mason slipped the sling of his M4 over his head and snugged it up. He stepped back a few feet and bolted straight ahead. As he leaped over the slick, he dropped to his knees and slid across the floor like a puck across a hockey rink. Halfway across, he toppled sideways but managed to steady himself using his forearm as a rudder. When he got to within a few feet of the shelves, he shuddered to a stop on a dry patch of floor.

Using one of the racks to steady himself, he carefully pulled up to his feet. Several of the shelves were stacked with oil filters, and he began tearing open their tops until he found one that he thought might work. With the filter in hand, he leaped back over the oil slick, once again using his knees to slide across the room. Not having quite enough momentum, he stopped prematurely and had to knee-walk his way over to the door. Once there, he crept outside and took a moment to wipe off his boots. The knees of his pants were soaked with oil, but that was a problem for another time.

He readied his M4 and held the inlet of the oil filter up to the muzzle. It looked like about the right diameter. He carefully slid the filter down over the flash suppressor and examined the fit. There was an eighth of an inch gap all the way around, acceptable for what he had in mind. He pulled off a long strip of duct tape and secured the filter to the end of the muzzle, sealing up the small gap as well as possible. It was ugly to be sure, but he suspected that it would do the job.

While he had never made a homemade suppressor before, he had seen it done a few times with mixed results. People tried everything from pillows to potatoes, none of which worked particularly well. Oil filters were reputed to work better than most homegrown suppressors, but even so, he didn’t expect it to quiet supersonic ammunition. It should, however, at least help to muffle the sharp crack of gases as they were released from the muzzle.

Holding the rifle in the low ready position, he hurried back to the rear entrance of the Waffle House. The Dollar General remained out of sight, which left him a bit anxious about where his enemy might be hiding. He slipped back through the door and quietly navigated the stench-filled kitchen. As he was about to pass through the saloon doors, the crash of breaking glass sounded from the next room.

The enemy had arrived a little ahead of schedule.

Mason dropped to one knee and gently eased one of the doors open a few inches. The Ravagers had broken out a pane of glass and were now stepping through the open hole. Two of the men were armed with handguns, and the third carried a pump-action shotgun. As soon as they entered the restaurant, they spotted the cooler door propped up between the grill and the counter. One of them motioned for the other two to circle right while he moved in from the left.

With the men now spreading out, dropping all of them before they could get off a shot was going to be tricky. Mason quickly played out the sequence in his mind. From his position, he would be best served by taking the lone man out first, before sweeping across to pick up the other two. While he was a decent marksman with a rifle, he was in no way certain that he could get all three before they returned fire.

As he brought up his M4, Bowie suddenly leaped over the counter, charging directly at the lead Ravager.

The sudden appearance of an enormous dog startled the men, and Mason used the opportunity to attack. He squeezed the trigger, and a muted crack sounded as the 5.56 mm bullet popped a neat little hole in the end of the oil filter. The slug caught the man a few inches below his heart, punching through his ribcage and piercing a lung before exiting through his shoulder blade.

As the man fell, Mason inched forward and swept his muzzle to the left. Before he could get off another shot, Bowie tore into the man, biting and tearing as he drove him to the ground. The Ravager screamed, blindly swinging his fists as the animal mauled him.

Mason continued his sweep, settling on the third man an instant before he ducked behind the laminate counter. Unable to see his target, Mason walked a series of five shots across the panel board, each spaced about six inches apart.

Uncertain if he had hit the man, he rushed through the swinging doors and dove headfirst onto the counter. Momentum sent him sliding down the long countertop, crashing into stacks of dishes, napkin holders, ketchup bottles, and salt shakers. When Mason finally came to rest, he saw the man curled into a ball on the floor, cupping his groin with both hands. The shotgun had fallen to the ground and now rested under a stool to his left.

Before he could bring his rifle back on target, the man whipped around with a Glock G27 and blindly squeezed off a shot. While the subcompact weapon was certainly capable of hitting a man-sized target at such a short distance, the shooter’s hands were slippery with blood, and Mason was a narrow horizontal target, not a shape that most people practiced shooting at.

The bullet hit nearly a foot too low, splintering wood as it smashed into the counter’s kickboard.

Mason rolled onto his side and returned fire, three quick presses of the trigger. The right half of the man’s skull burst open, spattering the stool with chunky niblets of brain. He fell back, and a pool of dark red blood slowly spread out from beneath what was left of his head.

Bowie growled, and Mason turned to find him shaking the final Ravager, his powerful bite clamped around the man’s throat. If he wasn’t dead already, he would be soon.

Sitting up and sliding his legs off the counter, Mason walked toward the first man he had shot. The Ravager lay on his back, arms flat at his side. His eyes were open, and his chest heaved up and down. A CZ75 semiautomatic pistol lay at his side, but he was in no condition to use it.

By the time Mason reached him, the man’s mouth had fallen open, and his pupils were slowly dilating. He had gone on to join his friends in whatever hereafter awaited violent men.

Leila peeked over the top of the cooler door with her Beretta in hand.

“Is it over?”

“Yes.”

Bowie released the man and walked over to scrub against Mason’s leg, hesitating when he smelled the oil-soaked fabric. He looked up and studied the bright blue oil filter taped to the end of the M4.

Mason leaned over and patted the dog.

“That, my friend, would be hard to explain even to a dog as smart as you.”

Leila hopped over the countertop and came over to give Mason a hug.

As she pressed her body against his, she said, “You’re late, as usual.”

“Correction. They were early.”

She shook her head. “Men.”

“A single word has never explained our shortcomings so well,” he said with a smile.

With her arms still wrapped around him, she leaned back and studied the restaurant.

“What now?”

“Now we hang around for a while to make sure the others have gone.”

“For how long?”

He shrugged. “An hour should do it. Men like these don’t have much patience.”

“And what do we do for an hour? Cook up some pancakes?”

Between the adrenaline still pumping through his body and the inviting press of Leila’s breasts against his chest, Mason couldn’t help but feel the stir of desire.

“I
am
hungry,” he said, sliding his hands down to cup her buttocks, “but not for pancakes.”

“Here?” she breathed. “Now?”

He lifted her into the air and carried her over to the counter.

“Why not? We wouldn’t be the first people to make love in a Waffle House.”

“Really?”

“Oh sure,” he said with a grin. “It’s practically a national pastime.”

The small town of West Jefferson lay ten miles behind them, and it now seemed unlikely that the band of Ravagers had detected their escape.

“Your silencer trick must have worked,” Leila said, looking back through the sliding rear window of the F150.

Mason nodded. “We got lucky.”

“
You
most certainly got lucky,” she said with a wink. “I hope you enjoyed your… pancakes.”

“What’s not to enjoy? Sweet. Fluffy. All they needed was a little butter.”

She laughed and punched him lightly.

They took a lazy turn, skirting the New River State Park on their right. The two-thousand-acre national park had an old-fashioned charm with its narrow winding roads, rustic churches, and country stores. The river itself had once served as a tranquil retreat for bird and butterfly watchers, not to mention the weekend fisherman hoping to catch his fill. A large single-story building poked up from between the trees, which Mason guessed was almost certainly a campground center. It wasn’t the building, however, that caused his gut to seize. It was the long string of motorcycles and cars idling out front.

He had glimpsed the Ravagers for only an instant, and he thought it possible that they might have missed a lone truck passing on the highway. He sped up, holding his breath as he passed a small road that cut deeper into the park. It was only when he heard the blaring horn of Willie’s car that he knew that their luck had run out.

Mason floored the gas pedal, and the truck lunged forward.

“What is it?” Leila looked first to him and then out through the back window.

Her answer was quick in coming as Willie’s car squealed out onto the road, fishtailing across the lanes as he gave chase. A few seconds later, the caravan of motorcycles, cars, and trucks appeared, all of them in hot pursuit.

“No,” she groaned.

“They’re smarter than I thought,” Mason said, shouting over the roar of the engine.

“What do you mean?”

“They knew that sometimes the best way to find an enemy is to wait for him to come to you.”

A short burst of gunfire sounded from behind them.

“They’re shooting at us!” she cried.

As if on cue, a
ping
sounded as a bullet punched a hole through the one of the truck’s quarter panels. Mason didn’t think that the Ravagers had much of a chance of hitting him or Leila, but Bowie could easily fall victim to their scattershot.

Leila started to lower her window.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’m going to return fire.”

He shook his head. “Save your ammunition. You’re not going to hit anything hanging out the window, especially left-handed.”

“We can’t very well let them shoot us to pieces.”

She was right, of course, but their options were decidedly limited. He could give them a hell of a fight from a good defensive position, but sitting behind the wheel was definitely not that position. Soon, the Ravagers would approach alongside the truck, either shooting them through the doors or blowing out the tires or engine. If he didn’t do something fast, the fight would be lost.

Mason stared at the rearview mirror. Bowie was busy barking, his way of trying to ward off their pursuers. Beside him sat a heavy canvas tarp covering the M2HB machine gun.

“Of course,” he mumbled, unbuckling his seat belt.

“Of course
what?
”

He rolled down the window, and air rushed in like seawater into a sinking vessel.

“Take the wheel.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t—” She was interrupted by one of the truck’s taillights exploding. “Marshal!”

But Mason was already halfway through the open window. As he pulled himself out, he began feeling his way across the top of the cab. Bullets whizzed by, and he found himself balancing precariously, one foot in the bed and the other on the windowsill. Unable to take the final step, he made a desperate leap, landing on his feet, only to stumble forward to his knees. Bowie immediately pressed up against him, licking his face and neck.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he said, gently pushing the dog away. “What do you say we give them something to worry about?”

Mason grabbed the edge of the tarp and pulled it off the Browning. The wind caught it, and the tarp tore free of his hands, flying out the back of the truck. It sailed right over Willie’s car and came down over one of the motorcyclists. The Ravager swerved left and then right as he fought against the heavy fabric. It eventually came free, but the canvas tangled around his rear wheel, and the bike spilled over, sending the rider tumbling across the asphalt.

As Mason slid in behind the M2, he reached over and pulled free a large string of .50 BMG ammunition. He carefully inserted it into the feed tray until the pawl engaged the first round. Once engaged, he jerked the retracting slide handle rearward and then let it fly forward. He cycled it a second time to chamber the round and then locked down the bolt-latch release. Ma Deuce was ready to rock and roll.

Gripping the handles with both hands, he rested his thumbs gently on the butterfly triggers and took a moment to size up his targets. There were eleven motorcycles, four cars, and two trucks. Willie’s car looked to be most fortified, but many of the vehicles had the makings of road warrior accouterments, including metal plating, ramming bars, louvered windows, and spiked wheels. The Ravagers, he thought, were still a work in progress, and he intended to set them back a few steps in their evolution.