The Survivalist: Madness Rules Part 25

It was not the first time a woman's logic failed to make any sense whatsoever to him.

"And what are you going to do now?" he asked, peeking around the van toward the theater. The doors were still closed.

"I'm going in there to kill them."

Mason grabbed the rifle. "No, you're not."

"Let go. You have no right to-"

"Listen to me," he said, raising his voice. "An injustice was done, and you ended up with a nasty reminder on your chest. I get it. But a scar isn't worth dying over."

She jerked the rifle out of his hands, her eyes burning bright with anger.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you to say what's worth dying over?"

"I'm just trying-"

"It's fine for you to avenge your beloved girlfriend, but I can't have justice? Is that it, Marshal?"

"I told you I'd take care of this."

"Don't you get it? I don't want you to take care of it. I have to be there to see them punished."

Mason looked into her eyes, and in some ways it was like looking into his own. Connie was not going to be deterred from her mission, no matter the cost.

"I was only trying to keep you from getting killed."

"I know that," she said, her voice softening. "But some things are worth dying for. Surely you of all people can appreciate that."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was right. It wasn't his call to decide what was worth risking her life over.

"Fine."

She offered a small smile and touched his cheek.

"Marshal, I know you mean well. And I'm grateful to you for getting me this far. But I'm perfectly willing to go and do this by myself." Before he could say another word, she marched off toward the theater.

"Hold up."

She stopped and looked back at him.

"I can't let you go in there alone."

She let out a sigh of relief.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Mason, Connie, and Bowie knelt behind a large air handling unit, staring at the back of the Paramount. The loading dock was twenty feet directly in front of them, its sliding door already raised about halfway up.

"Are you sure about this?" she whispered.

"I'm sure we can't go through the front door without springing a few leaks. Now, stay close. And for G.o.d's sake, don't shoot me or Bowie."

Mason raced across the small lot, and Bowie dashed after him. When they got to the building, Mason pressed his back flat against the red brick wall. The partially open sliding door was only a few feet to his right. He looked back at Connie standing overwatch from the air handling unit. Her rifle was trained on the door but, given her previous marksmans.h.i.+p, that wasn't particularly rea.s.suring.

He squatted down and took a quick peek under the sliding door.

No one shot at him.

Mason leaned around to get a better look. It was dark inside, but there was enough sunlight coming in to make out a room, roughly twenty feet on a side. It was filled from corner to corner with boxes, crates, and moving dollies.

He motioned to Bowie, and the dog raced under the door, disappearing into the darkness. Mason waited three seconds and then rolled in after him.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Mason saw that there were only two ways in or out of the receiving area, the sliding door and a large corridor that led deeper into the arts center. Bowie had circled the room and was now busy trying to scratch his way into a big white box along the far wall. Food, no doubt, thought Mason.

He stood and shoved the sliding door all the way up. Connie broke away from her position and hurried over.

"Last chance to sit this one out," he said.

She shook her head.

"All right then. Stay close."

With his Supergrade at the ready, Mason slowly advanced down the hallway. Bowie hurried to catch up, his mouth smeared with white frosting and small crumbles of molded cake. Together, the three followed the corridor, their feet making a distinctive clomp-clomp-click on the concrete floor.

After taking two turns, they arrived at an industrial kitchen. Stainless steel tables, stoves, sinks, and other food preparation equipment lined the walls. Pots, cooking utensils, and napkins were scattered on the floor as if the sous chef had suffered a breakdown after discovering rat droppings in his prized risotto.

Mason stopped and listened.

Nothing.

He motioned for Bowie to circle left while he went right. Connie followed a few steps behind Mason. Pots tipped over, silverware fell from tables, and paper crumpled under their feet. There was simply no way to move through the room without everyone in the vicinity knowing they were coming.

All right, he thought, let's see if we can use our misfortune to draw them out.

Mason hefted a pot big enough to boil spaghetti for Napoleon's army and tossed it over by the swinging saloon doors at the opposite side of the room. It clanged against a metal table before clattering to the floor.

"What are you doing?" whispered Connie.

"I'd rather bring an enemy out into the light than hunt him in his own cave."

Mason climbed onto a table next to the swinging doors and placed his back against the reinforced block wall. A small gap at the top allowed him to see a couple of feet out into the hallway.

It was clear for now.

He motioned for Bowie to be ready, and the dog turned to face the doors.

When nothing happened for more than a minute, he pumped his arms, motioning for Connie to make more noise.

She tossed a few frying pans around the room before ducking behind a stainless steel table.

Mason figured that if the Wards were going to come, they would do so within a couple of minutes. People were impatient when they had a gun in their hands. As he was about ready to give up on the idea, a shadow darkened the bottom of the doorway.

Bowie also detected the presence of someone, a low growl starting up in his belly.

Rather than blindly rus.h.i.+ng in, however, the intruder cautiously inched the door open. Despite his vantage point, Mason couldn't see the top of the man's head. Perhaps he was leaning around or pus.h.i.+ng the door with a broomstick. Smart.

Bowie started to move forward, but Mason held up a hand. The dog froze, his eyes fixed on the door as it slowly opened.

Mason heard something slide across the floor on the other side of door. Not wanting to risk Bowie breaking ranks, he grabbed the top of the door and flung it open. Max Ward lay on his belly, pistol in hand, high crawling through the doorway.

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 s.h.i.+rt. 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 holes 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.