Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7) (2 page)

“Keep a watch on things while we go check it out.”

Rodriguez swung his legs out through the window and immediately brought his 6.5 mm Grendel rifle up to his shoulder. The weapon was one of the spoils the cadets had taken from the Radford Army Ammunition Plant. It was accurate, hard hitting, and as reliable as any standard AR-15.

“Marshal, I swear you treat your dog better than you treat your woman.”

Mason grinned but said nothing as he walked toward the roadblock. Whether it was true or not, discussions of that nature should never be held when one’s “woman” was within earshot. As he approached the debris, Mason let his hand gently rest on the grip of his Wilson Combat Supergrade. It wasn’t that he expected someone to jump out and take a swipe at him. Rather, the smooth steel simply served as a reminder to keep his guard up.

Whoever had barricaded the road had done a decent job of it, shattering bottles underneath the rubble so that even if the larger items were dragged out of the way, a driver would still risk a flat tire. Short of going off-road into a thick crop of trees and shrubs, the only way around was to follow a narrow gravel road down into the trailer park. It was obviously an attempt to funnel unsuspecting travelers into some sort of an ambush. The only question was whether or not the trap remained set. The roadblock looked as if it had been in place for quite some time, and in all likelihood, whoever had built it was either long gone or killed by a well-armed traveler.

Bowie worked his way from one side to the other, sniffing anything that looked interesting. When he was confident there wasn’t anything edible in the pile, he returned to stand beside his master.

 Mason looked off toward the trailer park. It was impossible to see much of anything through the trees and thick brush. For all he knew, someone was staring at him through a rifle scope at that very moment. Rather than tuck and roll, he turned and walked slowly back to his truck.

Leila had slid across the seat and was now leaning out through the open driver’s side door. Rodriguez stood next to her, shifting his feet around like he had accidentally stepped in a pile of fire ants.

“Well?” he said.

“Well what?”

“What did you find?”

“A pile of junk.”

Rodriguez rolled his eyes. “I got that much from back here.”

Leila said, “I’m assuming it’s a trap.” She turned toward the trailer park. “To route us in there?”

Mason nodded.

“So, what do we do?” Rodriguez said, eyeing the park.

“The only thing we can. We go in and see what’s what.”

Lieutenant Bell steered the Mustang down the narrow driveway, its tires crunching across the loose gravel. Her eyes darted between rusty mobile homes, overturned garbage cans, and abandoned cars. There were a hundred places to hide, and even with all three cadets on the lookout, there was no way to scan them all. At best, they might get a split second’s warning.

Rodriguez sat in the passenger seat, the muzzle of his rifle pointing out the open window. Cobb leaned forward from the backseat, his Grendel protruding from the corner of Bell’s window. While far from perfect, their setup did at least provide some measure of firepower from both sides of the vehicle. All three cadets understood that shooting it out from inside a car was a losing proposition. Not only were they confined to a thin metal box, the gunfire would be absolutely earsplitting inside the car. Even so, it was resoundingly agreed that deaf was better than dead.

Leila followed a short distance behind, driving Mason’s F150 with the windows down and her Beretta 9 mm clutched firmly in her left hand. Following so closely made the group more vulnerable than she would have liked, but it was deemed best to keep the vehicles together in case they should have to set up a defensive position alongside one another.

When they were a few hundred feet into the park, Bell steered around a sharp turn to the left. The gravel on either side had been littered with shards of broken glass, leaving little room to maneuver. It was an obvious pinch point, and she was confident that if the trap remained set, it was about to be sprung.

A gunshot rang out, and then another.

Lieutenant Bell punched the gas, squealing around the curve to finally break out onto a short straightaway. She barreled ahead, the Mustang quickly reaching fifty miles an hour. Another turn lay ahead, this time to the right. She swung the wheel hard, skidding around the corner. The exit to the park lay directly ahead.

“Go! Go! Go!” Rodriguez shouted, pounding his palm on the dashboard.

She floored the pedal, and the Mustang bounced over a faded yellow speed bump, sending all three cadets colliding with the car’s headliner. As they came down, the car bucked over the lip of the asphalt and sped out onto the open highway. Bell let their momentum take them a few hundred yards before finally skidding to a stop.

Cobb patted her on the shoulder from the backseat.

“Good job, Lieutenant!”

“Yeah,” she said, lookup into the rearview mirror, “but where’s Leila?”

Leila’s reaction to the gunshots was much the same as Bell’s. She floored the gas pedal with the hope of getting the hell out of the line of fire. As she skidded around the first curve, the truck’s rear end fishtailed, and she was forced to hit the brakes to avoid going into a full 360-degree turn. Her head whipped from side to side as the truck came to a jarring stop.

Before she could straighten up and get back underway, she spotted a skinny man in shorts and a sweat-soaked tank top racing across the road, dragging a long metal cable behind him. He looped it around a telephone pole, pulling it taut so that it hovered two feet above the ground, and then quickly ducked out of sight.

Leila popped the truck in reverse. Too late. An identical cable was already being secured twenty feet behind her. She jerked the door open and stumbled out, swinging the Beretta up. Still tending to stitches in her right palm, she was forced to hold the weapon in her non-dominant hand, and it wavered from side to side.

 Three men raced toward her with pistols raised. Two of them were the ones who had pulled the cables, and the third looked like Abraham Lincoln’s delinquent brother, complete with a greasy chinstrap beard.

Leila adjusted her aim, moving from one man to the next. It took only a moment for her to accept what they already knew. This was not a fight she was going to win.

She slowly lowered her gun, flipped it around, and held it out butt first to Lincoln.

“Three on one. I guess you win.”

He smiled, showing off swollen gums and tobacco-stained teeth.

“You’re right about that.” Lincoln took her pistol and stuffed it into the back of his waistband. Then he shoved her over to one of the other men. “Keep her from doing anything stupid.”

“I plan to do more than that with this little honey,” he said, wrapping both arms her around her waist.

Lincoln approached the truck and leaned into the cab. A quick search of the glove box and behind the seats yielded nothing of interest. He stepped around to inspect the bed. Boxes of food, water, and supplies were scattered everywhere, but his eyes quickly settled on the Browning M2HB machine gun.

He ran his palm over the barrel, caressing it like he might a woman’s thigh. When Lincoln looked back at Leila, his eyes held a new kind of interest.

“My daddy used to say, ‘If you ever find a woman who likes to play with guns half as much as you do, marry her.’” He patted the Browning. “I hope you brought your wedding dress, ‘cause this is gonna be your lucky day.”

Mason knelt behind the corner of an old mobile home, staring down the sights of his M4. Bowie sat next to him, a sneeze away from bolting into the fray.

“Easy, boy,” he whispered. “Let’s see what we’re up against first.”

They watched as Lincoln searched the truck, his eyes finally fixating on the Browning. He turned and said something to Leila, but they were too far away for Mason to hear the words. No doubt, he had offered a suggestive quip about pretty young women and their affinity for big guns.

Leila shook her head, and Lincoln stepped closer, letting his eyes slowly drift up and down her curvaceous body. The man who was holding her ran a hand down her backside, slapping it playfully.

Mason forced air out through his nostrils but made no move to come to her aid. This was not the time to be impulsive. Assess before attacking. Many a battle had been lost by forgetting that simple rule. He had to be certain that others weren’t in hiding. When he was confident that he understood the enemy’s forces, he would move. But not a moment before. He had little doubt that any hidden foes would make themselves known soon enough. Men weren’t about to let themselves be excluded from enjoying the spoils of war, especially when the pickings included the affections of a beautiful woman.

Less than a minute later, a fourth man emerged wearing a white undershirt and tattered camouflage shorts. Thanks to a swollen beer belly and thick tufts of chest hair poking up through the neck of his shirt, he was a dead ringer for Larry the Cable Guy. A scoped bolt-action deer rifle hung across one shoulder. It didn’t take long for an argument to break out between him and Lincoln. Even at a distance, the cause of the disagreement was easy enough to see. They were bickering over Leila. Probably not about who got to keep her, but rather who would partake of the prize first.

Following the philosophy that he who is most aggressive usually gets what he wants, Larry pushed his way past Lincoln and grabbed Leila by the arm. She cried out as he jerked her forward. The man who had been holding her raised both hands, the universal sign for “Hey, man, take what you want.”

Mason gritted his teeth. If he waited much longer, Leila would undoubtedly find herself lying on a stained mattress with all sorts of unpleasant things being done to her. He took a final moment to consider his options. With the M4, he could likely drop two of the men before the rest ducked behind cover. Unfortunately, that would leave Leila right in the middle of a firefight—not a good place for anyone. On the other hand, fighting at close range would require taking out four men with a handgun. Again, a dicey situation at best.

Bowie pressed closer, as if to remind him that he was not alone.

“Even with you at my side,” he muttered, “lots could still go wrong.”

Bowie licked his lips.

Mason squinted. “Fine, but you get the big guy.”

He slung the M4 around to hang across his back, reasoning that it was much less likely that four rednecks would start shooting at a lone man approaching with a holstered pistol than one with a rifle at the ready. Taking a deep breath, he stepped around from behind the mobile home. No one immediately took notice, so he began walking toward the group at a brisk pace, as if he had something important to tell them. It didn’t take long for one of the men to spot him, and the entire gang quickly turned in his direction. Larry shoved Leila back toward Lincoln and slid the hunting rifle off his shoulder.

Mason offered a friendly wave and continued his steady advance.

The men looked to one another, amused as much as anything. What kind of fool approached four armed men with a smile and a wave?