The Survivalist: Madness Rules Part 26

Mason picked up his flashlight and quickly swept the room. No one else lay in hiding.

"Did you get him?" Connie called from the doorway.

"I'd say."

She cautiously entered the room.

"Who was it?"

"Karl."

"Good. Other than Joe, he was the worst of the bunch."

Once again, Mason reached down and tore the badge from the man's s.h.i.+rt, tossing it away onto a mound of garments. He also picked up Karl's revolver, an enormous Ruger Redhawk, chambered in 454 Casull, a caliber with enough stopping power to drop a fully grown black bear. The weapon sported a six-inch barrel and a fiber optic front sight, which was especially useful in low-light conditions. The gun was unusual enough that Mason didn't want to leave it behind but, at nearly five pounds fully loaded, it was far too heavy to stick in his waistband. He stuffed the hog leg back into its holster and unhooked the belt from Karl's waist. Rather than strap it on his own waist, Mason slung the entire rig over his left shoulder.

Connie stared at the huge gun.

"Why would anyone carry such a large pistol?"

"I'm guessing he had size issues," he said with a grin.

She laughed. "Now that wouldn't surprise me."

After doing a quick search of the rest of the room, they proceeded through the stage house and into a corridor with three sets of stairs going up.

"I've been here before," he said. "The first set goes up to dressing rooms. The second leads to an audition room. That's where I found Joe sleeping. It could be that Frank's retreated to somewhere he knows."

She nodded, s.h.i.+ning her flashlight on the second set of stairs.

Mason led the way, taking special care at the landing not to get ambushed. The door to the rehearsal room was closed. He was fairly certain that he had left it open after dragging Joe out.

"Think he's in there?" she whispered.

"Let me check it."

He quietly took the last few steps, put his back against the wall, and leaned over to listen at the door.

There was the distinct sound of someone pacing back and forth across the room.

He reached across and gently tried the k.n.o.b.

Locked.

Mason considered his options. Kicking the door in on an armed man was almost never a good idea. He would need to convince Frank to surrender. And that was something best done out of the line of fire. Walking as quietly as he could manage, he retreated back down a few stairs to stand beside Connie and Bowie.

"Frank, I know you're in there," he hollered up the stairs. Mason waited a moment before continuing. "Your brothers are both dead. If you want to have any chance of carrying on your family name, you need to open the door."

Nothing happened.

"I'll give you to the count of five. If you don't open the door, I'm going to blow the lock and come in shooting." Mason had no intention of trying to shoot his way into the room, but the threat sounded plausible enough.

There was a brief pause before a voice called out from behind the door.

"You promise you won't shoot me?"

"As long as you put down your gun, I won't."

There was another brief pause as Frank considered the offer.

"I have your word?"

"You do."

The handle moved slightly as Frank unlocked the door.

"I'm opening the door now. Don't shoot."

"Slow and easy, Frank."

The door slowly swung inward, and Mason brought his Supergrade up at the ready.

"Let's see your hands."

Frank lifted his hands into the air. A pistol lay at his feet.

Bowie started up the stairs, his tail tucked and ears folded back.

"Easy boy," Mason said, following him up.

Connie brought up the rear.

Frank backed into the room, never lowering his hands.

"Remember, you gave me your word."

"I'm not going to shoot you." He glanced over his shoulder at Connie. "The question is what are we going to do with him?"

Without hesitating, she stepped forward, put her pistol to Frank's chest and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked out of her hand and fell heavily to the floor. Frank reeled back, clutching his chest, his eyes and mouth both open wide.

"Connie!" Mason shouted, stepping back and turning the Supergrade toward her.

She stood looking down at Frank with a calm expression, like a serial killer who had scratched a homicidal itch. Frank fell to his knees in front of her, his eyes drooping as a steady stream of blood pulsed out from between his fingers.

"You murdered him in cold blood," Mason said, still reeling from the unexpected violence.

"No," she said. "I punished him for what he did to me." She stepped out of the way as Frank pitched face first onto the floor.

Mason felt his gut twist as he stared at the satisfied smirk on Connie's face. How in the h.e.l.l had he become a part of something so vicious? More important, what was he supposed to do now?

She saw him looking at her and put her hands on her hips defiantly.

"Don't look at me like that. I told you they had to pay."

"Not like that they didn't."

Bowie sniffed the fallen man and then turned back to look at Connie, his ears raised with curiosity.

"You can tell your dog to quit looking at me like that too. I came here for justice-"

Mason started to correct her.

She waved his words away.

"Justice, revenge, murder, call it whatever you want. My mother taught me not to let any man abuse me."

Mason looked down at the fallen man.

"She'd be proud all right."

She smiled, perhaps missing his sarcasm.

"Yes, she would."

Connie bent down to pick up the revolver she had dropped.

"If you pick that up, you're on your own."

She looked up at him.

"Joe's the worst of the bunch. I can't let him walk away from this."

"Maybe not, but I won't be a part of his murder."

"All right," she said. "But are you going to stop me?"

He thought about it a moment. Joe Ward was a violent criminal who undoubtedly deserved whatever he got. Defending a man like him was not something Mason felt compelled to do. On the other hand, shooting an unarmed man secured to a pole was outside his definition of justice.

"I won't stop you, Connie. But understand that if something goes wrong, you're on your own. Bowie and I are done here." He turned and left the room.

Bowie quickly followed, glancing back at Connie as she bent over and retrieved the pistol.

Mason and Bowie walked down the small flight of stairs, the dog's claws clicking on the tile like a secretary's heels. What bothered Mason most was that he had failed to see the hardness in Connie's heart. A woman who would put a pistol to an unarmed man's chest and watch him die was someone he didn't want to be too close to. The fact that they had shared s.e.xual intimacy was something he would have to reconcile later. All men can be seduced by beautiful women, he reminded himself. Often what sets them apart is finding the resolve to walk away.

Bowie glanced back and whined as he heard Connie coming down the stairs behind them. But he made no attempt to slow and check on her. It was clear that she was now outside the pack.

Mason pa.s.sed through the backstage area and pushed through the heavy performance curtain. He swept his flashlight across the ornate stage, searching for the stairs down to the audience floor. As he walked toward the exit, gunfire suddenly erupted-the quick burp-burp-burp-burp of automatic fire as bullets tore jagged holes in the wooden stage.

He instinctively dropped his flashlight and dove off the front of the stage, cras.h.i.+ng into an array of folding metal chairs and music stands. Bowie landed beside him but with much less clatter. It took Mason a moment to realize they had landed in the orchestra pit at the foot of the stage. He tossed chairs aside and scrambled over to a short dividing wall that faced the audience.

Flashes of light came from high above him as more bullets pounded the area of the stage where his flashlight rolled around. Someone was shooting from the rafters, and the gunfire was distinctive, an Aug A3. Joe had not only gotten free, he had retrieved Mason's rifle.

"c.r.a.p," he mumbled, pulling Bowie closer. "This one's on me."

Mason peeked over the top of the wall. The distance to Joe was probably between fifty and a hundred yards. With a rifle, the shot wouldn't have been difficult, even with the man having some cover behind the metal girders. But using a pistol to hit a target that far away in the dark required plenty of ammunition or a laser sight.

An idea came to him. While it wasn't the ideal weapon, the Redhawk's six-inch barrel and fiber optic sights were fairly well suited to the task. It didn't hurt that the 454-Casull round could punch through a refrigerator.

He slid the Redhawk from the holster. The gun was too heavy to hold still, so he rested the six-inch barrel on the edge of the orchestra pit wall and pointed it in the direction where he had last seen the muzzle flashes.

The rafters were dark and quiet for the moment. Joe was obviously waiting for a target. Mason picked up one of the music stands and tossed it like a javelin onto to the stage behind him.

Joe immediately let loose with a long burst of gunfire, chewing up the edge of the stage.

Mason lined up the Redhawk and squeezed the trigger. The trigger pull was much longer and harder than his Supergrade, and he struggled to keep the fiber optic bead perfectly in line with the flashes.

Boom!

The gun went off, jerking violently upward as it hurled a 300-grain hollow-point slug toward Joe. He brought it back down and fired again. And again. And again. Only when the gun clicked over onto spent rounds did he finally duck back behind the wall.

The room was quiet except for a rhythmic squeaking that sounded like someone rocking in a creaky recliner. Mason planned to wait a full five minutes before moving, but within a few seconds, Connie stepped out onto the stage, waving her flashlight in his direction.

"Marshal, you okay?"

He started to shout for her to get down but realized there was no point. If Joe had been able to shoot, Connie would already be dead.

"What is it?" she whispered, leaning over the pit to talk to him.

He shook his head. "Toss me my flashlight, will you?"

She walked over and retrieved it for him.

"Who was shooting?"

Mason clicked on his flashlight and aimed it up toward the grid of metal rafters in the ceiling. Joe Ward dangled from a long electrical cord, his body hanging head down, swinging back and forth through the air like a clock that couldn't quite keep time. Blood pooled at the top of his scalp, dripping down onto an invisible audience below.

"My G.o.d! Is that Joe?" Her voice was a mix of horror and hope as she turned her flashlight beam on him.

"One of his boys must have helped him to get free."

Mason scanned the floor for the Aug. It was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was still in the rafters. More likely, it was buried somewhere in the huge ocean of seats. He took a moment to reload the Redhawk before shoving the weapon back into its holster.

Connie bent over and extended a hand out to him.

Mason stared at her, a muddy mix of feelings swirling through his head.

She offered a small smile.

"It's over, Marshal. No reason we can't be friends."