contribution, perhaps, courtesy of the Chief’s wife. As far as Miranda knew, Mrs. Wainwright was oblivious to the goings-on of the militia; she just knew the members as friends of her husband who liked to shoot and hunt. Nothing about that was abnormal in this part of the state. But she couldn’t take anything for granted.
Miranda drove past the driveway about a half-mile and left her car hidden off the road. She took stock of herself before setting off on foot. She was dressed in shades of black and gray, with a knit hat covering her brunette hair. She removed her jacket. Strapped to her back was one of the MAC-11 machine pistols Damon had stolen from Beaumont’s store. It was fitted with a threaded barrel and silencer, as was the Glock strapped to her right thigh. On the inside of her left thigh was a long, thin stiletto blade. She made sure all the weapons were locked and loaded. Satisfied, she pulled a ski mask down over her face and headed off into the woods.
#
Wainwright and Shane sat in the den, drinking beer and watching the television. “How much longer do you think it will be before Damon shows up?” Shane asked.
Wainwright consulted his watch. “Supposed to be here midnight. He’ll probably want to scout out things a bit, so maybe he’ll be early, maybe he’ll be late.”
“You think he’ll have the guns with him?”
“I hope so. I’ve been keeping an ear out; none of the agencies after him have a clue where he is. And no one’s mentioned any guns except for a few pieces stolen from Beaumont’s store. If he was smart he ditched those somewhere.”
“Why’d he take ‘em in the first place?”
“Cover his tracks, I guess.”
“Didn’t do a good job, then. Ev’rbody’s after him anyway.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s found him. He’s sharp, he is. He’s the one that picked up Justin Leider before he could talk.”
“So I take it that kid didn’t up and shoot hisself after all?”
“Don’t ask, ‘cause I ain’t telling.”
Shane nodded grimly. “Guess we’d better sober up and be ready, then.”
“Don’t sweat it. This is NA beer.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Honest. Some Canadian stuff I picked up. Take it with me when I go hunting. Guns and alcohol are a bad mix.” Wainwright started to say more, leaning forward to continue his explanation, but was cut off by the sound of glass shattering. “What the hell was that?”
Shane was out of his seat, a pistol in his hand. “Came from out front.”
They took cover behind their chairs, their backs to the window. Wainwright pulled out his own weapon, an old .45 automatic, and crouched. “Head for the doorway, I’ll cover you from here, then we’ll go in together.”
Shane nodded and rose. He made it about three steps before the window behind them shattered as well. The burly bearded man cried out as a stream of bullets stitched across his back, knocking him to the floor. Wainwright rolled to the other side of his recliner just before the stream tore into the leather where his head had been. He kept moving, staying low, waiting for the angry buzzing to cease. When he reached the far end of the couch he pointed his pistol over the arm and fired a pair of shots at the window. He fired three more into the wall below it, hoping they would penetrate the wood. They didn’t, so he fired two more through the window. No bullets answered him.
While the ringing in his ears died down, Wainwright changed magazines in his gun. Then he risked a look around the couch. Shane lay sprawled on the floor face down. A puddle of red spread out and away from his body. His pistol had skittered across the floor and was only a few feet away from Wainwright. The Chief waited several more seconds and then lunged out to grab it. The Smith and Wesson more than doubled his firepower. He decided that no more shots were going to come through the window, and turned to move to the front of the house.
#
Miranda emptied the machine pistol through the
Miranda drove past the driveway about a half-mile and left her car hidden off the road. She took stock of herself before setting off on foot. She was dressed in shades of black and gray, with a knit hat covering her brunette hair. She removed her jacket. Strapped to her back was one of the MAC-11 machine pistols Damon had stolen from Beaumont’s store. It was fitted with a threaded barrel and silencer, as was the Glock strapped to her right thigh. On the inside of her left thigh was a long, thin stiletto blade. She made sure all the weapons were locked and loaded. Satisfied, she pulled a ski mask down over her face and headed off into the woods.
#
Wainwright and Shane sat in the den, drinking beer and watching the television. “How much longer do you think it will be before Damon shows up?” Shane asked.
Wainwright consulted his watch. “Supposed to be here midnight. He’ll probably want to scout out things a bit, so maybe he’ll be early, maybe he’ll be late.”
“You think he’ll have the guns with him?”
“I hope so. I’ve been keeping an ear out; none of the agencies after him have a clue where he is. And no one’s mentioned any guns except for a few pieces stolen from Beaumont’s store. If he was smart he ditched those somewhere.”
“Why’d he take ‘em in the first place?”
“Cover his tracks, I guess.”
“Didn’t do a good job, then. Ev’rbody’s after him anyway.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s found him. He’s sharp, he is. He’s the one that picked up Justin Leider before he could talk.”
“So I take it that kid didn’t up and shoot hisself after all?”
“Don’t ask, ‘cause I ain’t telling.”
Shane nodded grimly. “Guess we’d better sober up and be ready, then.”
“Don’t sweat it. This is NA beer.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Honest. Some Canadian stuff I picked up. Take it with me when I go hunting. Guns and alcohol are a bad mix.” Wainwright started to say more, leaning forward to continue his explanation, but was cut off by the sound of glass shattering. “What the hell was that?”
Shane was out of his seat, a pistol in his hand. “Came from out front.”
They took cover behind their chairs, their backs to the window. Wainwright pulled out his own weapon, an old .45 automatic, and crouched. “Head for the doorway, I’ll cover you from here, then we’ll go in together.”
Shane nodded and rose. He made it about three steps before the window behind them shattered as well. The burly bearded man cried out as a stream of bullets stitched across his back, knocking him to the floor. Wainwright rolled to the other side of his recliner just before the stream tore into the leather where his head had been. He kept moving, staying low, waiting for the angry buzzing to cease. When he reached the far end of the couch he pointed his pistol over the arm and fired a pair of shots at the window. He fired three more into the wall below it, hoping they would penetrate the wood. They didn’t, so he fired two more through the window. No bullets answered him.
While the ringing in his ears died down, Wainwright changed magazines in his gun. Then he risked a look around the couch. Shane lay sprawled on the floor face down. A puddle of red spread out and away from his body. His pistol had skittered across the floor and was only a few feet away from Wainwright. The Chief waited several more seconds and then lunged out to grab it. The Smith and Wesson more than doubled his firepower. He decided that no more shots were going to come through the window, and turned to move to the front of the house.
#
Miranda emptied the machine pistol through the
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