Collision Course (11 page)

He disappeared through a door for a moment and returned with a beat-up rifle. He handed it to Jane, who passed it over to Gabe. The name on the rust-pitted barrel said Revelation. He pulled the bolt back and saw it was filthy inside. Gabe knew it was a piece of crap, mostly because it hadn't been given the proper care. He set it back down on the counter.

“Give us a minute, will you?” Gabe asked the man as he pulled Jane back toward the entrance.

“Jane,” he whispered, “I don't know what that watch is worth, but it's way more valuable than that piece-of-crap rifle.”

“But I really need to get Robby a rifle,” she said.

“I know, but you need to get him one that will work. I doubt that thing will even shoot straight.”

“I guess I could throw in all the ammo you want, too,” the fat man hollered.

“What do you think?” Jane asked in a voice low enough so only Gabe could hear.

“I think that if he's willing to break the law by selling a gun without a background check for that watch, it must be worth a lot more than you know. I won't let you do this. I have a rifle Robby can have, but we're not trading your watch.”

Gabe was surprised at himself. He wasn't sure if it was because he was being so assertive or that he'd offered to give away the .22 he had bought for Michael a long time ago.

“Whatever you say, Gabe.”

His surprise for himself was overshadowed by the look on Jane's face. It was respect.

CHAPTER 12

G
abe went back to the counter. “We're going to pass on the rifle,” he told the man. “I'm only going to take the rifle ammo and one box of the .38s.”

“I have a better rifle you might be interested in,” the fat man said quickly. “It's worth a lot more than this one, but I think I could still swap you even and throw all the ammo in, too.”

“No, thanks,” Gabe said as he held his hand out for the watch. The man reluctantly placed it in Gabe's palm with a longing last look. Gabe carefully handed it back to Jane, then dug into his pocket and pulled out a small roll of bills. He peeled off a hundred and fifteen dollars and handed it to the man. Then he picked up the four boxes of ammo he'd paid for and he and Jane turned to leave.

“I could sweeten the pot some if you change your mind,” the shop owner called out as they walked out the door.

Gabe waved good-bye with his free hand without turning around. He opened the passenger door on Jane's truck and placed his ammo on the front seat. By the time he climbed in, Jane had the engine running, and they backed out onto Main Street.

“Thanks, Gabe,” Jane said.

“No problem,” he replied. “I hate guys like that. I have no problem with anyone making a profit, but it was obvious he was trying to take advantage of you. That watch must be very valuable.”

“No . . . what I meant was, well, thanks for watching out for me, too, but I was thanking you for offering the rifle to Robby.”

Gabe was quiet for a long minute. He thought he'd be sorry he had made the offer, but somehow he was excited. He was actually looking forward to seeing Robby's face when he gave it to him and was eager to teach him how to shoot it. He felt, well, he had no words for how he felt. “You're welcome,” was all he said.

Jane pulled into the line at the gas station. It wasn't too long, and soon it was their turn. Signs read ONLY
TEN
GALLONS
PER
FAMILY
.
NO
GAS
CANS. Gabe got out of the truck to pump the gas. Before he could pick up the nozzle, a man rushed toward him.

“I'll do that!” he yelled.

Gabe took a step back to give the younger man room. The man wore a grease-stained, one-piece coverall. HARRY was embroidered on one side and the name of the station on the other. Gabe found it ironic that Harry had a shaved head. There was a gun belt and holster around his waist, which held a ridiculously long-barreled stainless steel revolver.

“Six dollars a gallon, paid in advance,” Harry said.

Jane leaned out the window and handed Gabe three twenty-dollar bills that he passed to Harry.

“That's a big hog leg,” Gabe said to the attendant.

“Yep,” Harry replied, patting the holster that was obviously made for a much smaller gun. “Forty-four Magnum. The most powerful handgun in the world.”

Gabe wasn't a gun nut, but he knew that there were more than a few handguns more powerful than the .44 nowadays. There was no point discussing it with Harry, though. The way he said it made it clear that he believed it to his core.

“You fellows having any trouble?” Gabe asked, noticing that the other attendant was also armed. His pistol wasn't as big as Harry's, though.

“Not yet, but we're ready for it,” Harry said smugly.

A minute later, he was hanging up the hose. Gabe thanked him and climbed back into the truck.

“He was a little gung ho, wasn't he?” Jane asked.

“Just a little. But they're probably smart being armed. In fact, if it was my station, I'm not so sure that I wouldn't have three or four more guys just standing around with rifles to make a bigger show of force.”

“Do you think they're going to get attacked?”

Gabe exhaled a long breath. “It's only a matter of when,” he said. “We've been lucky so far, probably because we're so far away from the big city, but as things get worse, and they probably will, the riffraff will make its way out here. We have a pretty good sheriff's department, and they've activated all the reserve deputies, but they can't cover the whole county. If push comes to shove, I don't know if they can even keep the town safe.”

Now it was Jane's turn to be quiet for a moment. Gabe saw her knuckles turn white as her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“How do you know all this?”

“Some from what the deputy at the store told me the other day. Other parts are from looking at human nature.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you and Robby lived in the city and there was no food or water, what would you do?”

Her eyes opened a little and she just stared at him for a long moment. Then they narrowed. “So, what do we do?” she asked.

“I don't know for sure, but we need to talk about it.”

Jane just nodded. They were both quiet for a long while.

“Gabe?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you some questions about your family?”

* * *

A second later, another shot rang out. DJ couldn't tell how close it was fired from, but sound didn't carry as far in the rain as it did on a clear day. He grabbed his rifle and started to run in the direction he thought it had come from, but then he stopped. If the shots were that close, it could be some sort of trap.

He went back to his bike and quickly donned his ballistic vest and climbed on the quad. He wasn't about to leave his most valuable possessions behind. Starting up the big machine, he backed it out of the shed and pulled up to the gate. A quick slice of the zip tie with his knife allowed him to open the gate. DJ noticed that the rain was letting up. Looking toward the west, he saw the sky was blue. Jumping back on the quad, he slowly made his way down the road, listening intently and looking for where the shots had been fired. A quarter mile down the road, a dirt driveway intersected the road. There were fresh tire tracks in the mud. Trees grew along both sides of the drive and hid whatever was behind them. He stopped his bike, and his mind raced to figure the best course of action. A minute later, two more shots rang out. There was no doubt that they were coming from the other side of the trees.

DJ heard a woman's voice. “Okay, okay, we'll come out!”

“Do it!” a man yelled. “Do it slow.”

DJ climbed off the bike with his carbine. He approached the opening in the trees in a semicrouch, and spotted a modest house. An old hot rod was parked in front. He lifted his rifle and looked through the scope. Three young men wearing gang colors were pointing weapons at the house. DJ had dealt with their kind, never in the way he had wanted, though. DJ knew what these types were capable of.

The front door on the small frame house opened, and a woman stepped out onto the porch with her hands in the air. A small child was hugging her tightly around the tops of her legs, making it impossible for her to take a normal-sized step.

“Is anyone else in the house?” the thug in the middle demanded.

The woman shook her head. Even at the almost hundred yards that DJ was from the house, he could tell through the scope that she was good looking. The middle guy, who DJ assumed was the leader, waved her toward him with his gun. The woman started moving toward him slowly as the child's grip tightened, making it harder for her to walk.

“Hurry up, bitch!” he screamed.

The woman's pace didn't change, and the impatient leader waved his free hand at his boys. They pounced on the woman like cats on a mouse. One peeled the child away from her, and the other grabbed her arms and held them behind her with one hand and pointed his pistol into her neck with the other. The leader stuck his pistol into the back of his droopy pants and walked up to her. DJ couldn't tell if he was frisking her or feeling her up. The little girl was screaming, and the leader looked at the hoodlum holding her and said something. DJ was scared that he was going to pistol-whip the little girl, but he just shook her until she shut up.

The leader returned to his supposed search of the woman. He quickly found his way to her feminine parts. The woman screamed, “No,” and began to twist and thrash around. The leader slapped her and grabbed her blouse, tearing it open. Then he slapped her again, this time so hard that she fell to the ground face-first. She went limp and still. DJ didn't know if the hit had rendered her unconscious, or if she'd hit her head on the ground. The leader rolled her over with his foot. His hands went to his belt buckle and his face split into an evil smile. DJ felt his face go hot. He knew what was next, and he wasn't going to let it happen if he could help it.

His carbine came to his shoulder as if it were part of him. All the hours of dry-firing in his apartment and the time he spent at the range had engrained the movement into his muscles. He leaned the forearm of the rifle against the trunk of the tree to give him the steadiest shot possible. The red chevron reticule of the scope found the middle of the leader's head. DJ flipped the safety, and the pad of his forefinger found the trigger. He squeezed, and the carbine barked.

The back of the leader's head disappeared into a pink mist. DJ felt the scowl on his face turn to a grin. The sight of his highly frangible bullet intersecting with the cranium of the perp was the coolest thing he'd ever seen. The man's body even stood erect for a moment. DJ had heard of this phenomenon, and he'd always wanted to see it. His gleeful reverie was broken a second later, as the other two delinquents began to run. He quickly adjusted his sight picture and fired again, this time at the torso of the man who had held the woman. He fell to the ground. The last punk was running for the car, firing his handgun wildly in DJ's general direction. DJ fired three times before he hit him. The man stumbled but continued to run for the car. DJ sent several more bullets his way before one stopped the man in his tracks.

It was strange. The world had gone silent. DJ wasn't able to define the feeling that saving the woman had given him. It wasn't joy, but it was close. He figured it could only come from the fact that he'd kept the woman and her daughter from being assaulted or worse.

He maintained his position for a moment to make sure there weren't any more tangos that he hadn't seen. The little girl started to cry. He changed magazines and stood up, reexamining his surroundings. The three youths were probably too stupid to have a lookout, but he had to be careful. It only took one well-aimed bullet from an unseen adversary to ruin your day.

DJ cautiously made his way to the house. He could see the little girl lying across her unconscious mother and sobbing so hard that her body shook uncontrollably. When he was about halfway to the house, she saw him and began to scream. DJ lowered the rifle from his shoulder and held out his hand to assure her that everything was okay. The gesture did not have the desired effect, as the girl only screamed more hysterically. DJ didn't need some neighborhood do-gooder thinking he was one of the bad guys and shooting him by mistake.

“It's okay, it's okay,” he said in a hushed voice, looking from side to side. “I'm here to help you. I stopped those bad men from hurting you and your mom.”

“Are you going to shoot us?” the girl asked in a trembling voice.

“Of course not,” DJ reassured her. “I'm here to help. Did you see any more bad guys?”

The girl, who looked to be six or seven, shook her head. DJ was now close enough to see that the woman was unconscious. He knelt down beside her and felt her neck for a pulse. It was strong, and he could see that she was breathing. There was a large lump on her forehead where she'd hit the ground. He turned and looked at the mostly headless attacker and saw the grip of a very large pistol sticking out of the waistband of his jeans. DJ pulled the pistol out to find it was a Desert Eagle in .357 Magnum.

DJ figured he'd better check on the other two hoodlums. The second one he'd shot was dead, and it looked as if the bullet had gone through his heart. DJ could only imagine how badly the thinly jacketed projectile had shredded the organ. When he walked around the car, he found the guy who had run for it was still breathing in ragged gasps. He stared at the young man for a minute. It looked as if the injuries from the three hits, while not immediately fatal, were not survivable without medical treatment.

The man groaned and turned his head. His eyes opened, and he looked up at DJ. He moved his mouth to talk, but no sound came out. His eyes pleaded to the man standing over him as no words could. He was probably only sixteen or seventeen and had most likely not had the advantages of a loving home or anyone who really cared about him. His fate had been sealed from the moment he'd been born.

DJ knew that the phones were probably not working, and even if he could call 911, he didn't want to have to explain this situation to the law. They'd likely see things his way and let him go, but that wasn't a chance he was willing to take. He could load the young man into the car, try to get him to a hospital, and just dump him at the door. They might be able to save him, but save him for what? He'd only return to his evil ways if he survived. It was all he knew, and how many resources and supplies would the hospital have to use that might be used to save a truly deserving person?

It was a dilemma DJ had never considered facing. He held this boy's life in his hands. What should he do? If he took him to a hospital, would he be able to get back to get his quad? That would also use up gas in the car that he really needed. He decided that it was only humane to put the boy out of his misery.

DJ flipped the safety off on his AR-15 and placed the muzzle right in the middle of the young man's forehead. The kid's eyes widened.

“See you in hell, kid.”

DJ's finger touched the trigger, but he couldn't pull it. He stared back down into the youth's terrified eyes, going over his options again. Before he came to a conclusion, the eyes closed and the body slumped over.

DJ was thankful he hadn't had to put the coup de grâce into the kid, but he also didn't feel any remorse that he was dead. He wondered briefly if he should. He heard the girl start to cry again, and he walked back around the car.