the bedroom, that scenario didn’t bode particularly well for him.
Option two was to slip out the bedroom window and hide out in the tree line until they left or he could initiate a successful attack. The risk there would be that they might hear the heavy window slide open and try to intercept him around back. Also, there was the problem of leaving Bowie to fend for himself, something he was not prepared to do. Taking the dog with him wasn’t possible either because, even in his wildest dreams, he couldn’t imagine Bowie fitting through the small window.
His mind made up, Mason quickly slipped on a pair of blue jeans, a black tee shirt, and his boots. He also secured his pistol in its holster, and double-checked the knife on his hip. He squatted down beside the dog.
“I need you to make some noise.”
Bowie stared at him and then turned back to look at the door.
“That’s right,” he said. “Good boy. But wait until I’m ready.”
The dog turned back to the door, its ears standing straight up.
Mason moved to the window, unlatched it, and gave it a light tug upward. As he suspected, it was stuck. He looked back at Bowie.
“Okay, boy, get ‘em!” He raised his voice with the last two words, and Bowie got the message. He charged to the door and began barking wildly.
Mason jerked the window upward, and thankfully, it came free. The cool air spilled into the room like icy water into a submerged vehicle. He wasted no time, leaning out the window and falling forward. He hit the ground, rolled on one shoulder, and quickly scrambled to his feet. It wouldn’t have earned him many points in a gymnastics competition, but it did get him out and ready to fight very quickly.
Mason ran around the cabin while keeping close to the wall to avoid setting off the flood lights. When he came to the front, he hopped over the railing onto the porch and peeked around the corner. Not fifteen feet from him was a man standing at the top of the stairs. He was holding an assault rifle at the ready, but his back was to Mason.
A man with long dreadlocks charged out the cabin door, looking back the way he had come. The two men exchanged words, and the man with the rifle shoved him back toward the cabin. Dreadlocks reluctantly re-entered, pistol in hand.
The man outside the cabin brought the rifle to his shoulder and watched intently at what was happening inside. Mason drew his knife and held it low, at the ready. Staying in the shadows for as long as possible, he charged across the porch.
By the time the man saw Mason approaching, it was too late. He barreled into him, sending both of them down the stairs to slam into a large red Hummer that was parked out front. They bounced off the truck and fell to the ground.
Landing on top, Mason thrust the knife up under the man’s rib cage. When it hit his backbone, he jerked it out and stabbed again. With the second blow, the man immediately grew limp, his arms falling away to his sides. Leaving the knife sticking out of him, Mason snatched up the rifle and rolled onto his back to face the cabin door. The door to the cabin was still open, but no one came out to check on the commotion.
Taking a moment to examine the rifle, he saw that it was a cheap, Chinese-made AK-47, not something he was willing to let his life depend on. He tossed it aside and drew his Supergrade—not as much firepower but much more reliable. He waited another ten seconds, but no one came out of the cabin. Seeking a better fighting position, Mason stood and quietly advanced to one side of the door.
From inside, he heard Dreadlocks say, “That damn bedroom door must be a foot thick. I don’t care what Ricky says. We’re not getting through it without a grenade.”
“Let’s just take what we can and get the hell out of here,” said a second man. “I got a bad feeling about this place.”
“Ricky thinks there might be a woman hiding in there. Remember how sweet that peach was from the Zippy Mart.”
Both men
Option two was to slip out the bedroom window and hide out in the tree line until they left or he could initiate a successful attack. The risk there would be that they might hear the heavy window slide open and try to intercept him around back. Also, there was the problem of leaving Bowie to fend for himself, something he was not prepared to do. Taking the dog with him wasn’t possible either because, even in his wildest dreams, he couldn’t imagine Bowie fitting through the small window.
His mind made up, Mason quickly slipped on a pair of blue jeans, a black tee shirt, and his boots. He also secured his pistol in its holster, and double-checked the knife on his hip. He squatted down beside the dog.
“I need you to make some noise.”
Bowie stared at him and then turned back to look at the door.
“That’s right,” he said. “Good boy. But wait until I’m ready.”
The dog turned back to the door, its ears standing straight up.
Mason moved to the window, unlatched it, and gave it a light tug upward. As he suspected, it was stuck. He looked back at Bowie.
“Okay, boy, get ‘em!” He raised his voice with the last two words, and Bowie got the message. He charged to the door and began barking wildly.
Mason jerked the window upward, and thankfully, it came free. The cool air spilled into the room like icy water into a submerged vehicle. He wasted no time, leaning out the window and falling forward. He hit the ground, rolled on one shoulder, and quickly scrambled to his feet. It wouldn’t have earned him many points in a gymnastics competition, but it did get him out and ready to fight very quickly.
Mason ran around the cabin while keeping close to the wall to avoid setting off the flood lights. When he came to the front, he hopped over the railing onto the porch and peeked around the corner. Not fifteen feet from him was a man standing at the top of the stairs. He was holding an assault rifle at the ready, but his back was to Mason.
A man with long dreadlocks charged out the cabin door, looking back the way he had come. The two men exchanged words, and the man with the rifle shoved him back toward the cabin. Dreadlocks reluctantly re-entered, pistol in hand.
The man outside the cabin brought the rifle to his shoulder and watched intently at what was happening inside. Mason drew his knife and held it low, at the ready. Staying in the shadows for as long as possible, he charged across the porch.
By the time the man saw Mason approaching, it was too late. He barreled into him, sending both of them down the stairs to slam into a large red Hummer that was parked out front. They bounced off the truck and fell to the ground.
Landing on top, Mason thrust the knife up under the man’s rib cage. When it hit his backbone, he jerked it out and stabbed again. With the second blow, the man immediately grew limp, his arms falling away to his sides. Leaving the knife sticking out of him, Mason snatched up the rifle and rolled onto his back to face the cabin door. The door to the cabin was still open, but no one came out to check on the commotion.
Taking a moment to examine the rifle, he saw that it was a cheap, Chinese-made AK-47, not something he was willing to let his life depend on. He tossed it aside and drew his Supergrade—not as much firepower but much more reliable. He waited another ten seconds, but no one came out of the cabin. Seeking a better fighting position, Mason stood and quietly advanced to one side of the door.
From inside, he heard Dreadlocks say, “That damn bedroom door must be a foot thick. I don’t care what Ricky says. We’re not getting through it without a grenade.”
“Let’s just take what we can and get the hell out of here,” said a second man. “I got a bad feeling about this place.”
“Ricky thinks there might be a woman hiding in there. Remember how sweet that peach was from the Zippy Mart.”
Both men
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