Finest Hour (4 page)

“What is it, boy?”

The growl in the dog’s chest grew deeper and more ominous.

Leila turned to face the highway.

“He hears something.”

Mason was about to suggest they make haste when he heard the throaty rumble of a car’s exhaust as it barreled down the highway toward them. He glanced at his truck. It was a good fifty yards away—too far to make a play for his rifle.

They watched as a big Chevrolet sedan painted in a dusty gray primer topped the nearest hill. Steel plates had been welded to the front and sides of the vehicle, and thick metal louvers covered its windows. An enormous battering ram constructed from I-beams and sharpened steel pipe extended from the front bumper.

“What the hell is that?” he breathed.

Leila stiffened. “Ravagers.”

“Ravagers?”

“Roadway bandits who weaponize their cars. I’ve run into their kind before. Rapists and murderers, every last one of them.”

He turned back to face the car, eyes narrowed.

“Are you armed?”

She shook her head. “I left my Beretta on the floorboard when we came out here to dig. Tell me you have your pistol.”

He slid his hand around to rest on the grip of the .45 caliber Wilson Combat Supergrade holstered at his side.

“It’s the first thing I put on, and the last thing I take off.”

Leila flashed him a grin. “Spoken like a true American cowboy.”

As the car approached the service station, it swerved off the road and turned in their direction, a thick cloud of dust flying up behind it.

“Should we run for the truck?”

“No.” Mason preferred to face trouble head on, rather than at a dead run.

Bowie seemed to agree, planting his feet and pulling his lips back in a wicked snarl.

As the Chevy came closer, it slowed, finally skidding to a stop twenty yards away. The driver left the engine running, and a whip antenna mounted to the trunk wobbled from side to side as the heavy engine idled. For a moment, nothing happened. No one stepped out. Neither did they make any threatening moves.

Just as Mason was about to call out to the driver, a voice boomed from a speaker mounted to the grill.

“Down on your bellies!”

Leila gripped Mason’s right arm.

“Marshal...”

Mason’s voice was calm and steady.

“Take two steps to my right.”

“Why?”

“Because I need my gun hand free.”

Conscious now of what she was doing, she let go of his arm.

“Sorry, but surely you’re not going to have a shootout with… with that.”

“They may not leave me a choice.”

“I said, on your bellies!” the voice bellowed.

Bowie barked and started toward the car.

“Easy, boy,” said Mason. “Even your teeth can’t get through that armor.”

The dog reluctantly turned and came to stand at his side.

Without taking his eyes off the car, Mason said, “Leila, the instant my gun leaves the holster, you break for the truck.”

“Right.” She drifted a few feet to her right and prepared to make a break for it. Not that it would do much good. With her bum leg, the car could easily run her down. And even if she could get Mason’s M4 in hand, the 5.56 mm rounds wouldn’t penetrate the steel plate.

The driver revved the engine, and it roared like an angry beast preparing to charge.

Mason stood fast, his hand resting firmly on the grip of his Supergrade. He estimated the gap between louvers to be five inches, well within his targeting ability. That, of course, assumed that the car wasn’t barreling toward him. Either way, without a clear view of the driver, he would have to walk the shots across the windshield, hoping that at least one would find its mark. It was a gamble to be sure.

“I’m a deputy marshal,” he shouted. “You have exactly three seconds to shut off the car before I shoot everyone inside.” It was a ballsy move, but sometimes the old adage about bullies backing down proved true. Then again, sometimes it didn’t.

The engine quieted as the driver eased off the gas. Options were clearly being considered.

Mason started a slow countdown. “One… two…”

The driver killed the engine. A few seconds later, the driver- and passenger-side doors swung open. The driver was in his late thirties, thick and strong, with a bushy beard and stars-and-stripes bandana wrapped around his greasy hair. He looked like Willie Robertson might if the Duck Dynasty Empire had suddenly fallen on hard times. The passenger was a good thirty years older, and with his spectacles and thick gray beard, could easily have passed for Willie’s crazy uncle Si.

As they stepped around to the front of the car, both men left their doors sitting open. Mason took that to suggest they were the only two occupants.

When Willie spoke, it was with an exaggerated redneck drawl.

“Marshal, you gotta be the biggest idjut in all of North Carolina.”

“No, sir,” Mason said with a smile. “That honor would go to you.”

“How do you figure?” he said, puffing out his chest.

“Who else would climb out of a tank to confront a man holding nothing more than a pistol?”

“We’ve got guns too,” he said, tugging lightly on a large-caliber revolver pushed down into the waistband of his trousers.

“I see that, and we won’t have a problem as long as you keep those weapons stowed.”

Si bristled. “Listen, you little shit, you don’t tell me—”

“Save it,” Mason said, holding up his left hand.

Si quieted, but his face turned an unpleasant shade of red.

Satisfied, Mason turned back to Willie.

“Go ahead and state your business.”

“What are you talkin’ about? What business?”

“You approached us in an all-fire hurry. That means you want something. So, let’s hear it.”

Willie took a long look at Leila, licking his chapped lips.

“Is that pretty li’l thing yours?”

“I’m no man’s property,” she scoffed.

He grinned. “Not yet you ain’t.”

“So, that’s it then?” said Mason. “You were hoping to work your charms and maybe go home with a new lady friend?”

“Food, water, and women. There ain’t nothin’ else, Marshal.”

“For your kind, I suppose not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mason sighed. “It means that you have a choice. You can either die here in this dirt field, or you can go on your way, none the wiser perhaps, but at least you’ll be breathing.”

“That a threat?”

“You bet it is.”

Willie glanced over at Si.

“What d’ya think? Should we do as the big bad Marshal says?”

“I say we get back in the car and run this sumbitch over. His big ugly dog too. Then, if you want the scrawny girl, you can jus’ take her. She ain’t gonna hold your attention long anyway. They never do.”

Willie nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Both men turned back toward the car.

“Hold it,” Mason said in a firm voice.

Willie glanced back. “What?”

“I really would be a fool to let you get back into that thing, now wouldn’t I?”

“Can’t see’s you really have a choice. You ain’t gonna shoot us in the back. We ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” He offered a toothy smile. “Not yet, we ain’t.”

Mason shook his head. “I stand by my earlier assessment of your intelligence.”

Willie wrinkled his brow and looked over to his partner for an explanation.

Si only shrugged.

“I’m only going to say this once. Toss your keys and pistols out into the brush.”

“Or what?” sneered Willie.

“Or I’ll shoot you both.”

“You gonna draw down on both of us?” Willie squared himself, and Si took a step away from the car, his hand moving slowly toward the pistol in his belt.

Mason took a breath and let it out slowly, feeling his heart calm and his hands steady. He played out the draw. As soon as the Supergrade cleared the holster, he would double-tap Willie in the chest. When the muzzle settled from the second shot, he would shift his aim to Si—one shot in the upper torso. He doubted that more than one 230-grain slug would be needed for the old man. The whole sequence could be completed in a single second.

“Ah, hell,” Si said, tugging for his pistol. “Let’s jus’ get this over with.”

Mason drew his Supergrade, but before he could get off a shot, Willie dove forward with both arms extended. He probably would have gotten hands on Mason too, had it not been for Bowie. The dog caught him in mid-stride, latching onto the meat of his calf and dragging him to the ground.

With Willie down, Mason sidestepped and shifted his aim to Si, watching out of the corner of his eye as Leila bolted toward the truck.

Bad luck being what it is, the front sight of the old man’s revolver snagged on his belt, and the gun discharged, sending a .357 Magnum slug deep into his belly. Si collapsed to the ground, moaning. While the gut shot certainly put him at a profound disadvantage, it also prevented Mason from seeing his hands.

“Toss the gun!” he shouted, training his Supergrade on the man’s head.

Si groaned, toppling over onto his side as he tucked into a ball.

“Do it!”

The old man shoved the bloody revolver out from under him.

Mason shuffled forward and kicked it under the car. Stepping clear of Si, he turned back to check on Willie. The poor redneck was screaming like he had fallen into a wood chipper, as Bowie ripped into him, snapping and biting at his hands, arms, and groin.

“That’s enough, Bowie.”

Without turning around, the dog slowly backed away.

Mason nodded to Willie. “Toss your gun too.”

Willie’s fingers were badly chewed, and he had to clamp the gun with both palms in order to sling it away.

“Christ Almighty, Marshal,” he groaned, propping up on one elbow. “That beast ain’t got no right eatin’ me like that.”

Mason leaned down and patted Bowie.

“Watch him.”

The dog licked his lips, never once taking his eyes off Willie.

Mason walked over and retrieved the man’s revolver. It was a Taurus .44 Magnum with a six-and-a-half-inch ported barrel, beautiful, but too heavy to be used for anything other than big game hunting. He ejected the cartridges and hurled the pistol into the brush.

“Mason!” hollered Leila. She had made it halfway to the truck before stopping to look back. “Everything okay?”

He waved her on. “Go on to the truck. I’ll be along in a moment.”

With his Supergrade at the ready, Mason edged up to the driver’s door and peered inside the car. The back seats were stuffed with food, water jugs, and cartons of cigarettes, but as he had suspected, there were no other occupants.

He holstered the pistol and slid out his hunting knife. He couldn’t in good conscience leave Willie and Si without transportation in the middle of nowhere, but he could at least ensure they weren’t able to follow in short order. Mason stabbed the blade into the sidewall of the closest tire, watching as the rim slowly settled into the soft dirt. The car was still drivable, but certainly not fast enough to keep up with him and Leila. And while Willie could likely round up a spare from the service station, changing a tire with mangled fingers would be a slow and painful process.

Willie called to Si, but the old man didn’t answer. He had slid over to lean against the front fender and was now slumped forward, clutching his belly. The front of his shirt and trousers were soaked with blood, and his eyes were squeezed shut because of the pain.

“You shot him, you sumbitch.”

“No, that was his own doing.”

“Well, you gotta at least help him. He’s gonna die if you don’t.”

“He’s going to die no matter what I do.”

“You’re a lawman for God’s sake!”

“That’s true. But right now he doesn’t need a lawman. He needs a grave digger.” Mason turned to Bowie. “Come on, boy.”

Bowie took one last look at Willie before turning and trotting over to his master.

“Marshal!” he shouted, struggling to get to his knees. “What you did here ain’t gonna go unpunished. I can promise you that.”

Mason stopped and looked back.

“You do what you need to, and I’ll do the same.”

Chapter 4  

The drive winding out of the Blue Ridge Mountains was quiet and peaceful, and Tanner and Samantha rolled their windows down to let the late morning air circulate through the Hummer’s expansive cabin. The small county road eventually intersected with Highway 321, a two-lane thoroughfare that ran all the way from South Carolina to Tennessee. It was cluttered with abandoned vehicles, but neither of them took much notice. There had been roughly three hundred million cars and trucks in the US when the pandemic hit, and many now rested on desolate stretches of highway all across the country. Perhaps the only thing to have suffered worse than mankind was the new car business.

As they passed by a small service station in Sugar Grove, they saw a bearded man in an adjacent field. He was kneeling next to a car that looked like it could have been taken right off the set of Mad Max. As soon as he saw the Hummer, he scrambled to his feet and began waving for them to stop.

“That man’s trying to get our attention,” said Samantha.

“Yep.” Tanner’s foot remained firmly on the gas.