As the RV started north along Highway 17, Mason and Bowie settled into the trailer being pulled behind it. Most of the goods the junkers had collected were consumables: canned food, cigarettes, bottles of soda, toilet paper, boxes of nails, reading glasses. A few of the items were more valuable, including a pair of matching bolt-action hunting rifles, a mishmash of ammunition piled together into a large canvas sack, some cold-weather army jackets, a kerosene space heater, and a wooden crate filled with an assortment of hammers, wrenches, and screwdrivers.
Mason piled a few of the army jackets between two 55-gallon drums of water and settled back against them. Bowie lay at his feet, sniffing a bag of charcoal briquettes.
“You hungry, boy?”
The dog’s head whipped around.
“Yeah, me too.” Mason fished an MRE from his pack, and for the next ten miles, he and Bowie shared beef with black beans, chipotle tortillas, spiced apples, and pound cake. All in all, not too shabby for end-of-the-world cuisine.
When they finally arrived at the intersection of Cowpen Neck Road and Morris Farm Lane, the RV came to a stop. A sprawling cornfield lay to their right, last year’s stalks dry and withered from never having been fully harvested.
Bartley opened his door and came around to stand beside the trailer with Hoss watching him through the RV’s back window.
“You sure this is the place?” Bartley turned and studied the empty Virginia landscape. “Not much here.”
Mason climbed from the trailer, and Bowie hopped down beside him.
“I guess I’ll find out. Either way, I appreciate the lift.”
Bartley glanced back at the RV.
“Hoss wants me to ask you again about the drugs. You sure you ain’t willin’ to make a trade? He said you can take your pick of anything on the trailer.” He reached down and dusted off a case of Hormel Chili. “Got some good stuff in here.”
Mason shook his head. “It’s for the kids, remember?”
Bartley let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah. Thing is, Hoss don’t really care much for kids.”
Mason slipped his pack over his shoulders.
“That’s okay. I’m sure they don’t care much for him either.”
Bartley bit at his lip, obviously hunting for words that would close the deal.
Mason patted him on the shoulder.
“He’ll get over it.”
“I’m not so sure,” he said in a low voice.
“Listen. You and Kyle don’t seem like bad men. Maybe it’d be better if you made your way without Hoss.”
He gently shook his head. “Nah. Last thing our mother ever said was that family’s all we got.”
“Hoss is family?”
“Half-brother. Same as Kyle, only different daddy.” When he saw the puzzled look on Mason’s face, he said, “My mother, well, some might say she got around a bit.”
Mason chuckled. “At least you have family. That’s something, I suppose.”
“Now you understand why Kyle and I don’t really have a choice.”
“You always have a choice. No man gets a pass on that.”
Bartley looked away. “Take care of yourself, Marshal.” With his head hung low, he turned and trudged back to the RV.
Mason and Bowie stood, watching as the junkers wheeled the RV around and headed back along Cowpen Neck Road. When they were finally out of sight, Mason turned in a slow circle, surveying the farmland that stretched in every direction. The only house within sight lay a few hundred yards to the east.
He looked over at Bowie. “I guess we’ll start there.”
Mason kept to the road, hoping to avoid having to slog his way through soft dirt and overgrown fields. As they approached the home, he noticed that the farmland directly beside it was much better maintained. The ground had been recently tilled, and it looked like seedlings were beginning to push up through the rich soil. He couldn’t tell what was being grown, but someone was obviously giving it attention.
Hoping to avoid startling the homeowner, Mason approached along a small paved walkway that led up to the house. The structure itself was nothing special, a single-story farmhouse painted a pale shade of gray. There were, however, several banks of solar panels lining the roof, as well as an amateur radio tower and water tank stationed along the right side of the house. A weathered gray barn easily twice the size of the home sat to the rear of the property. Visible within was a faded yellow Air Tractor AT-501 crop-dusting airplane.
As Mason traversed the narrow walkway, he heard singing coming from around back. The voice was soft and warm, and the melody friendly.
Bowie looked up at him.
“Anything that pretty can’t be too dangerous.”
Together, they detoured around the side of the house only to find themselves staring at billowing white sheets blowing in the morning breeze. A long clothesline ran the length of the yard, and nearly every inch of it was being used. A young woman stood with her back to them, hanging the last few items as she sang to herself. She wore a white blouse and faded green skirt, both of which looked handmade. Her sandals and a Browning 20-gauge pump-action shotgun sat next to a wooden bench that overlooked a small herb garden.
Mason stood for a moment, listening to the young lady sing. For a moment, he was reminded of Connie West, a lover who had once invited him to stay with her and live the life of a farmer. He had declined the offer, not so much because of the lifestyle but rather the vengeful nature of the one doing the asking.
Feeling a bit like an uninvited voyeur, Mason cleared his throat.
The woman wheeled around, her eyes darting over to the shotgun.
He raised both hands, palms out.
“You won’t need it.”
She took a moment to study him, and he couldn’t help but do the same. The woman was barely out of her teens, her sun-soaked skin slick with a glossy sheen of sweat. She had strawberry blonde hair pulled up into a simple bun, thin strands hanging down in front of one eye. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone, and bare breasts pressed against the thin fabric.
Before she could say a word, Bowie wandered closer, his tail wagging from side to side as if he was trying to squeegee a windshield. He pressed his wet nose against one of her hands, and she giggled.
“Well aren’t you the friendliest thing,” she said with a beautiful southern accent.
“Sorry,” Mason said, walking toward her. “Bowie’s not one for formal introductions.”
She stroked the dog’s enormous head.
“That’s quite all right. We’re not very formal around these parts.”
He extended his hand. “I’m Mason.”
The young woman quickly wiped her hand on her skirt and gave him a firm shake.
“Jessie.”
“Nice to meet you, Jessie.”
“Can I help you with something?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for Jack Atkins. I believe he may live around here.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you looking for Jack?”
“I guess you could say we’re old friends.”
“You and Jack are friends?” From her tone, she didn’t seem to believe him.
“Okay, ‘friends’ might be stretching it a bit. Truth is, we’ve talked a few times on the radio.”
She caught sight of the badge on his belt, and a tentative smile came to her lips.
“Wait a minute. Are you Marshal Raines?”
“In the flesh.”
Her face lit up. “Oh my goodness, he’ll never believe you’re here!”
“You know Jack?”
“Of course, I do, silly! He’s my father.”
“Your father?”
“That’s right. And he told me all about how you helped to save us from the likes of President Pike.”
Mason shrugged off the compliment. “Honestly, I think all I did was make a mess of things.”
“Brave and humble.” She clapped her hands together with excitement. “I love it.”
Jessie’s smile was contagious, and Mason found himself beaming like a proud schoolboy.
“Really, it wasn’t like I—” He stopped in mid-sentence. The shine in her eyes was not going to be dimmed by anything he said, and even if it could, he didn’t want to be the one to do it.
Jessie suddenly seemed to realize that they were standing in front of her family’s clothesline.
“Daddy would never forgive me for being so impolite. Come,” she said, turning toward the house. “I’ll get you something to drink.” As they passed the small bench, she snatched up her shotgun, popped open the breech, and draped it across her shoulder the way experienced hunters often did. “We don’t get many visitors out here,” she explained. “And those we do aren’t always welcome.”
“I understand.”
She pulled open the screen door and motioned for him to go inside.
“Make yourself at home. We don’t have much, but the least I can do is offer you a place to rest your feet.”
“Much appreciated,” he said, setting down his pack and M4.
Bowie didn’t make it through the door before it swung shut, and he stood, staring in through the screen.
“You and Jack live here alone?” Mason asked as he sat down at the small kitchen table.
Jessie never broke stride as she lifted two glasses from the cupboard.
“Ever since Momma passed, nearly five months ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She returned to the table, carrying glasses of iced tea, minus the ice.
“She’d been battling cancer for the better part of two years. Once the hospitals closed, Momma never really stood a chance. Daddy and I did what we could for her, of course, but cancer is what it is. She made us promise not to cry for her when she was gone, and I’m doing my best to keep that promise.”
“She sounds like a strong woman.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” she said, shaking her head. “Momma wouldn’t back down from no one. I once saw her run off two coyotes in nothing but slippers and a bathrobe.”
He grinned. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Nope. It’s just me.” There was a liveliness to Jessie’s voice that filled the room like a warm campfire. “Momma was much younger than Daddy, and I suppose they were hoping to have a boy somewhere along the way. It didn’t happen, and so they made do. What about you? Any siblings?”
Mason shook his head. “Single child. Same as you.”
“And your parents, are they…?” She hunted for a delicate way of putting it.
“Both alive as far as I know. My mother’s living with the Amish, up in New York, and my father’s back at our cabin, in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
“I suppose your daddy’s a marshal too?”
“No, he’s… something else.”
She offered an understanding smile. “Even so, the Good Lord put us all here for a reason, don’t you think?”
Mason thought of all that Tanner had done for young Samantha.
“I suppose.”
“When I was a little girl, Daddy used to tell me that I was put here to bring a little sunshine into the world. That was his nickname for me—Sunshine. Silly, right?”
“Fitting, I’d say.”
She smiled. “I never figured you to be so sweet. Truth is, I imagined you being one of those hardnosed stuffy types, like Daddy and I used to watch in his old westerns.”
Jessie picked up her glass and took a long drink of the tea. Mason took the opportunity to do the same. He was thirstier than he’d thought, and when he turned the glass down, it was half-empty.
Bowie let out a little whine.
“Now where are my manners?” Jessie said, hopping to her feet. She filled a bowl with water and carried it out to him. When she returned to sit at the table, they could hear the big dog slurping water like he had just hiked across the Mojave.
“Thank you.”
“Not at all.” She looked over at Bowie. “I imagine he’s your best friend in this whole world.”
The words surprised Mason. He couldn’t remember a single person, not even Ava, ever saying something like that. Now, after having heard them aloud, he realized just how true they were.
“That he is.”
“Me, I love animals—cats, dogs, pigs, you name it. Have, all my life.”
“From what I can tell, they seem to love you back.”
“I’ve always thought that animals can tell what’s inside a person.”
“Bowie’s been a pretty good judge of character, even if I haven’t always heeded his advice.”
She looked out at the wolfhound. “Have you had him a long time?”
“Going on a year.”
“And before that?”
“Before that, he was a military working dog.”
“I believe it. His eyes are almost as serious as yours.”
Mason cracked a smile. “I have serious eyes?”
Jessie leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands, studying his eyes. It made Mason’s stomach tie into a strange little knot.
“Are you kidding?” she said. “It’s like looking down the barrel of a gun.”
Mason tried his best to avoid staring back into her rich brown eyes, reminding himself that she was probably fifteen years his junior, not to mention the daughter of the man whose help he was soliciting.
“In case that was meant as a compliment, thank you.”
“Oh, it was.” She batted her eyes playfully. “What about mine?”
“I’m pretty sure your eyes could melt frost on a windshield,” he said with a chuckle.
She giggled and sat back up. “That’s sweet. Momma always said that my eyes were my best attribute.”
Glancing down at the firm breasts straining against her thin blouse, Mason wasn’t sure he agreed.
“They are beautiful.” He cleared his throat, hoping that it might help to clear his mind as well. “So, is Jack home? I had a favor to ask of him.”
“No,” she said, her face losing some of its cheer. “Daddy’s not home at the moment.”
Mason waited for her to say more.
“Truth is, he’s been gone a couple of days.” She wasn’t quite able to hide the concern in her voice.
“Mind if I ask where he went?”
“Up to Grey’s Point Camp.”
Mason wrinkled his brow, unfamiliar with the name.
“It’s a big RV campground where folks gather to trade supplies. To hear Daddy tell it, it’s become something of a hub for preppers, survivalists, and anyone else who managed to find their way through the worst of it.”
“Why didn’t he take you with him?”
“He says it’s no place for a lady, not that anyone’s ever accused me of being any such thing.”
“Did he go there for supplies?”
She nodded. “Lately, he’s been going once a month, but this is the first time he’s been gone for more than a single night.” She waved it away, obviously putting on a brave face. “I’m sure he’s fine. Just running a little late, right?”
“Could be.”
She took a deep breath to collect herself.
“You said you needed a favor. Maybe I can help.”
Mason wasn’t at all sure about making himself at home in another man’s space.
“Please,” she said. “It would help to get my mind off all this worrying.”
“All right,” he said. “Does Jack still have his HAM radio?”
“Are you kidding? Daddy’s radio is probably the one thing in this house he loves more than me.”
“Is there enough power to run it?” Mason thought of the solar panels lining the roof.
“Oh sure. We’ve got a whole bank of car batteries that’ll give you plenty of juice.”
Bowie raised his head abruptly from the water bowl and gazed toward the side of the house. Both Jessie and Mason took notice.
“Are you expecting company?”
“It must be Daddy!” She hopped up and hurried out the back door.
Bowie bounded after her, equally as curious about who was approaching.
Mason chose to be a bit more cautious, stepping into the living room and pushing aside curtains that covered the front window. A familiar silver RV sat parked along the road, and three men approached along the walkway with shotguns in hand. Hoss was leading the way.
Shit!
Before Mason could decide on a course of action, Bowie and Jessie rounded the side of the house. The junkers swung their weapons up and began shouting commands. Bowie instinctively crossed in front of Jessie, the hair on his back growing stiff as he began barking ferociously.
Mason glanced back at his M4 lying next to his pack inside the back door. Even if he had it in hand, it wasn’t going to solve the problem. His best chance at preventing bloodshed was to try a little diplomacy, even if it did put him in harm’s way.
He pushed open the front door and stepped out. Hoss immediately shifted his aim to cover him.
“You should have made that trade when you had the chance, Marshal.”
Mason shrugged. “A man should have the right to choose what he keeps and what he gives away. I would have thought you of all people understood that.”
“What I think is that you’re an asshole who didn’t know what was good for him.”
Mason turned to Bartley and Kyle.
“Is this how you two want to live? Taking what you want at the point of a gun?” Both men seemed unwilling to even look at him as they kept their weapons trained on Jessie and Bowie.
“They do as they’re told,” snarled Hoss. “And if you’re smart, you’d better start doing the same.”
Mason said nothing more. It was clear that the three men held a bond that wasn’t going to be broken by a few choice words from a stranger.
“All right. How do you want to do this?”
“Start by tossing your pistol.”
Mason took a moment to size up his chances of shooting all three men before one could get off a shot. Not good.
He lifted out the Supergrade with his thumb and index finger and gently lobbed it onto the grass a few feet away.
“What is it you want?” Jessie said, her voice more determined than afraid.
“He knows. Don’t you, Marshal?”
“My pack’s inside on the kitchen floor. Go on and take what you want.”
“You’re damn right I’m gonna take what I want. Now get!” He motioned with the muzzle of the shotgun for Mason to lead the way.
Mason glanced over and saw Jessie staring at him.
“It’s going to be all right. I found some medicine that these men want. Once I give it to them, they’ll go.” He turned back to Hoss. “Isn’t that right?”
“I’m not promising you a damn thing.”
Bowie turned toward Hoss, his lips pulled back into a snarl.
“Bowie!” shouted Mason.
The dog quieted, studying his master.
Mason shook his head. “Not this time.”
Confused, Bowie turned back to face Bartley and Kyle. Jessie squatted down and wrapped her arms around the giant dog. Her embrace seemed to calm him, and he reluctantly settled against her.
Hoss lifted the shotgun to his shoulder and growled, “I won’t tell you again, Marshal. Move!”
Mason turned and led him into the house, moving carefully so as not to alarm the big man. They passed through the living room and into the kitchen.
He motioned toward his pack. “Do you want me to get them, or do you want to do it?”
Hoss eyed the M4 leaning next to the backpack.
“You just sit your ass down in one of those chairs and hope I don’t get a wild hair to redecorate the walls.”
Mason sat, his hands resting in his lap.
Keeping the shotgun trained on him, Hoss sidestepped over to the pack. He squatted down and flipped open the side pocket. The fentanyl lozenges were inside. Holding the shotgun with this right hand, he reached across to fish out the small plastic housings. Several fell from his grasp, and he glanced down to pick them up.
Mason flipped the table up to act as a shield and lunged forward. The tabletop crashed against the big man, knocking him onto his haunches and pinning the muzzle of the shotgun to the wall. With his shoulder pressing against the table’s underside, Mason used his right hand to draw the thick Fällkniven blade that hung from his belt. He brought it overhead and drove it down as if chipping away at a block of ice. The tip of the 6.3-inch cobalt steel blade lopped off Hoss’s left ear and opened a gash along his cheek.
Hoss screamed, dropping the shotgun to shove the table away.
As he was lifted into the air, Mason brought the blade down again. The knife pierced the side of the junker’s neck, cutting through his carotid artery and larynx. Hoss let out a gurgled scream, and his arms buckled under the weight of the table. Mason reared back again, this time driving the heavy blade through the top of the man’s skull.
Hoss collapsed and lay still as the table settled over him.
Mason gave the knife a tug. Stuck. He cranked it from side to side, cracking the skull to create enough of a gap to break the suction of the man’s brain. Sliding the knife free, he wiped the bloody blade on the leg of Hoss’s trousers and inserted it back into its sheath.
Mason moved the table aside. Hoss’s eyes were open, and tiny rivers of blood raced down his face. Remarkably, he was still alive.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Mason muttered softly. “You knew it would eventually end this way. If not here, then somewhere else.”
Hoss said nothing as his face slowly lost its color.
Mason reached down and picked up one of the fentanyl lozenges. He popped open the plastic sleeve and gently inserted the lollipop into Hoss’s mouth. The big man made no move to stop him, nor did he offer thanks.
“That’s all I can do to ease your suffering. I suspect it won’t last long.”
Mason picked up his M4 and turned to face the living room. No one came rushing through the front door. That was the good news. The bad news was that there remained two men with shotguns outside.
A couple of options came to mind. The first was to take another go at reasoning with them. They were, after all, seemingly of slightly better character than their older half-brother. The problem with that choice was that it put him, Jessie, and Bowie at their mercy. And while there were exceptions to the rule, Mason had found the old saying about blood being thicker than water to be poignantly true. Few men could easily move past seeing their brother lying in a pool of blood. Such images brought with them a desire for justice, and if not that, revenge.
That left Mason with but one way forward. He would have to kill Bartley and Kyle. It was unfortunate, but then again, killing always was.
With the decision made, he turned his attention to coming up with a viable plan. Even if he had his Supergrade in hand, there was simply no surefire way to put down both men before one squeezed off a shot. He would have to come at them in a way they didn’t expect.
A thought came to mind. It was the kind of stunt that was probably best saved for the newest Jason Bourne movie, but at the moment it was all he had.
Mason reached down and dug through his pack, coming up with a single 5.56 mm cartridge whose only distinguishing mark was a dull black tip. He had commandeered a handful of the M995 armor-piercing rounds when intercepting a band of illegal arms traffickers some months earlier. While conventional M855 green tip ammunition typically did a better job on soft tissue, the tungsten core of the M995 was designed to offer better penetration, especially at long ranges. For what he had in mind, penetration would be paramount.
He ejected the magazine from his M4, cleared the chamber, and loaded the M995 round onto the top of the stack. There was no need to load more than one armor-piercing round, as this would be a one-shot, winner-takes-all kind of event.
Ammunition was only part of the equation. He also had to get into position, not to mention pull off the shot of a lifetime.
Mason pushed his way through the back door and headed around the far side of the house. He veered off, exiting the backyard and ducking into a grove of oak and pine trees. Once he was sure that he was far enough away not to be detected, he circled around until the junkers came into view. Bartley and Kyle stood side by side, perhaps six feet apart. Jessie knelt in front of them with her arms still wrapped around Bowie’s neck. The dog had settled down and was now doing his best to give her the tongue bath that she was obviously requesting.
Bartley and Kyle were growing nervous. That much was clear from the way they shifted their feet around. For his part, Bartley was doing his best to lean around to see through the front door but apparently not having much luck. Kyle, meanwhile, was eyeing Jessie with an interest that went beyond passing curiosity. Perhaps he was weighing the merits of adopting his older brother’s views on taking whatever he wanted. The one thing Mason could say for certain was that they weren’t going to stay put much longer. Once they separated, his window of opportunity would be closed.
Mason thought that the best way to kill both men instantly would be a simultaneous headshot. Sure, there were other ways of killing two people with a single bullet, but aiming for the thoracic cavity with hopes of piercing both men’s hearts felt more like a “close your eyes and cross your fingers” type of gamble.
He brought the M4 to his shoulder and checked the sight picture. Too far right. He took three wide steps to the left and checked it again. Almost there, but the height difference of the two men would cause one to take a bullet to the ear and the other to get away with a haircut. He took another half-step left and dropped to one knee. One more quick check of the sights, and he settled for it being good enough.
There wasn’t a branch or rock nearby to rest the rifle on, so Mason pressed the stock against the nearest tree for support. Iron sights. Eighty yards. An easy shot. Easy if he wasn’t trying to hit two volleyball-sized objects that were moving around like fishing bobbers.
He took in a breath, let out half, and watched as the muzzle slowly settled. His finger applied slow steady pressure to the trigger, knowing precisely where and when it would break.
Boom!
The gun bucked, and he forced it back down in case a second shot was needed.
It wasn’t. Both men had fallen.
Mason scrambled to his feet and raced forward, the stock of the rifle pressed to his shoulder. Seeing him, Bowie pulled away from Jessie and bolted toward his master. They met halfway between the house and the trees, and together they advanced on the fallen men. Jessie had retreated to stand beside her front door, her hand resting on the handle.
Mason approached the two junkers. It was not a pretty sight. The bullet had entered Bartley’s right temple and exited through the opposite brow, taking with it a three-inch chunk of skull. Together, bullet and bone fragments had torn through Kyle, leaving him looking like he had taken a shotgun blast to the face.
Bowie sniffed Bartley’s leg and then looked back up at Mason.
“I know,” he said with a heavy voice. “But I didn’t see another way.”
“Marshal?”
He turned to find Jessie cautiously approaching.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Me? You’re the one I’m concerned about.”
“I’m fine,” she said with a quick shake of her head. “It’s not the first time men have come to my home intent on taking things.” Despite the tough talk, her voice trembled slightly.
Mason instinctively put an arm around her. She stiffened for a moment and then slowly settled against him. There were no words to make things right. All he could say was, “I’m sorry.”
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
“Sorry? For what?”
“I brought armed men to your home. That’s on me.”
She reached up and placed a warm palm against his cheek.
“No. These men brought themselves here.” She paused. “I do want to ask you something though.”
“All right.”
“Why didn’t you just give them what they wanted?”
“In my experience, when a man realizes he can take anything you have, he won’t stop at your belongings.”
“What do you mean? What else is there to take?”
Mason said nothing as he stared into Jessie’s sparkling brown eyes. She was young and desirable. Not only to him, but to any man, a prize that she probably didn’t even fully understand at her age.
“Me?” she said.
“I couldn’t take that chance.”
Her eyes clouded with tears. “You, sir, are a good man.”
He offered a slight smile. “Tell me that after you see what I’ve done to your kitchen.”