Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5) (31 page)

As they raced down the highway, Samantha shouted over the whine of the Kawasaki’s engine.

“This motorcycle isn’t going to work!”

Tanner turned his head. “Why not?”

“Because it’s too small. Besides, it feels like we’re riding on a Transformer.”

Tanner was about to remind her that their only alternative was to walk when he spotted their antique motorcycle up ahead.

“Look,” he said, pointing.

She nodded and patted him on the side.

Tanner swung the Kawasaki in behind the BMW, and they both hopped off. Fearing that their captors might be lying in wait, he quickly surveyed the area. Everything looked exactly like it had when they had been taken prisoner. His shotgun was secured to the handlebars, and his pack was tied to the back of the seat.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, swinging a leg over the heavy bike, “but I’ve had enough of these wannabe survivalists. What do you say we get out of here?”

Samantha was already settling down into the sidecar, her Savage .22 rifle lying across her lap. She stared off at the cornfield, playing through everything that had happened.

“Yeah,’ she said, “I think we’ve done enough damage here.”

Chapter 21  

While not as ideal as the jungles of Viet Nam, the museum’s lower level offered all kinds of possibilities for traps. The most obvious would have been to force a collapse of part of the ceiling. As Lenny’s predicament proved, there was plenty of weight overhead to break bones and otherwise ruin a person’s day. The problem with that sort of trap was that it would be completely uncontrollable. If a portion of the ceiling started to go, there was no guarantee that the whole thing might not come down. A more tactical approach was needed.

Mason hunted through the rubble gathering a handful of supplies that he thought might prove useful: nails, boards, a bicycle inner tube, a bundle of string, several small steel springs, and a length of iron pipe to act as a hammer. As the Viet Cong had learned, the best traps were often the simplest. A pit with sharp
punji
spikes was as good as a landmine if it took out the enemy. Unfortunately, pits, while easy to set up in the jungles, were considerably more difficult to implement indoors. Still, Mason thought that he could probably rig up something similar.

He started by hammering a few dozen nails through a large sheet of plywood. A bed of nails was perhaps the simplest trap of all, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t effective. He tipped the board onto its side and dragged it over to the area directly beneath the hole. The dust was still thick in the air, making it nearly impossible for anyone rappelling down to spot the nails. It would be an unpleasant landing for the first man down.

Even though Leila was only ten feet above him, Mason didn’t call out to her. He needed to use every second available to him to prepare for the enemy.

His next step was to hammer a single nail through the centers of several small pieces of wood. Using the edge of a chunk of concrete, he quickly sharpened the tips of the nails. Then he ejected the magazine from his M4 and peeled away a handful of cartridges. Supplies in hand, he carefully maneuvered the narrow hallway, setting cartridge traps in any suitable crevice.

The trap was set by laying the wood as flat as possible. The spring was then slipped over the nail to act as a holding channel. Finally, the cartridge was set down into the spring such that the tip of the nail rested against the primer. Everything fit together as well as could be expected, and by the time Mason finished, he had placed seven traps.

The idea of the cartridge trap was simple enough. An enemy’s boot would step on the tip of the cartridge, causing the primer to strike against the nail. The primer would then detonate, firing the round up through the unsuspecting soldier’s foot. Even though cartridge traps had been used in guerilla conflicts for decades, they were certainly not foolproof. Primers could fail to ignite, or soldiers could avoid the small trap all together. To help with the latter, Mason placed scraps of paper and other lightweight debris over the exposed cartridges. Odds were pretty good that at least one of them would get tripped.

With the landing and hallway trapped, Mason turned his attention to the small Masonic lodge. Everything could be put to use in one way or another. He started by dragging the pews over near the exit door. Even though they were cracked, they remained heavy and solid, and he felt reasonably sure that they would stop small-arms fire—for a little while at least. This would be his first firing position.

Bowie circled the pews a few times, looking for the elusive giant rat they had seen earlier. It was probably fortunate for both rat and dog alike that he didn’t find it.

Mason retrieved the ceremonial sword from the wall and carried it over to the waist-high podium. The top of the podium was slanted, and he thought it would make a fine firing ramp. The trap he had in mind was typically done using an arrow, but he felt certain that the sword would work. He started by breaking off the ivory handle and decorative hilt, leaving only the polished blade and its rusty narrow tang.

Bowie wandered over and sniffed the broken shards.

“Stand clear,” Mason said, moving behind the podium.

He pushed the podium off the checkerboard tile, stopping when he had it positioned a few feet from the entryway door. Then he placed the blade on the slanted surface and stretched the inner tube to get an idea of the dimensions required for the trap. When he had them figured out, he hammered a nail at the front of the podium and rigged two small lengths of wood and a piece of string to act as a trigger. Finally, he carefully hooked one end of the inner tube around the makeshift trigger.

To his surprise, it held the very first time.

“Okay,” he said, putting one hand around Bowie. “Let’s give it a go.”

Mason gently pulled the string, and the trigger snapped free. The apparatus worked better than he had hoped. When the trigger released, the inner tube propelled the sword into the back of the door, where it hit with a loud
thunk
. The wood paneling was so rotted that the tip of the blade passed through both sides of the door, and it took Mason some effort to work it back out.

Bowie stared at the hole in the door and gave a little whine.

“Yeah, I know. It’s all very old school, but I’m working with what I have.”

He tapped a final nail into the bottom edge of the door, secured the string to it, and reset the trap. When the soldiers pushed the door open, the string would trip the trigger, and the blade would fire at the lead man. That is, if everything went according to plan. Traps were never ideal. Most were either never tripped or failed to operate properly. Even so, guerilla wars were won by inflicting a thousand tiny wounds.

He moved next to the hallway lined with crates and boxes, each piled high with faded documents. There was nothing obvious that came to mind to serve as a trap, so he decided to make the hallway his second defensive position. The stacks of paper were ideal for stopping gunfire. He slid the crates around until he had established three areas of cover, each staggered along the hallway. Then he brought his rifle up and practiced darting between the positions.

All right, he thought, three traps in place, as well as a couple of defensive positions. There was just one more thing to do. The fourth trap would be the coup de grâce, the deathblow, the “Ah shit, here it comes!” finale. And it would only be tripped if everything else failed to stop the enemy.

Mason hurried back to inform Lenny of his plans, only to find him leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. Except for the blue around his lips, Lenny’s face was nearly devoid of color. The blood loss was taking its toll. Rather than try to wake him, Mason quietly pushed through the door at the back of the room. A hallway led straight ahead for thirty feet and then turned right. At the corner, a portion of the ceiling had collapsed, and daylight shined in.

Mason and Bowie clambered to the top of the rubble and looked out. It led to the back of the museum and out onto a grassy spread covered in rocks and more of the blue glass. The front of the museum was blocked from view, but Mason envisioned Leila faithfully standing guard at the small hole.

Bowie pushed up against him, perhaps fearing that his master was trying to sneak away without him.

Mason held the dog back while he studied the rubble. After a few seconds, he found what he was looking for—a large wooden utility pole leaning precariously over the museum. The only thing that kept the seven-hundred-pound pole from crashing down onto the museum floor was an antique toy wagon that had tipped up to stand on end. Mason was reasonably confident that he could kick the wagon out from under the pole, and that, he hoped, would start a chain reaction that collapsed the floor.

He turned and slid his way back down into the museum. Bowie, however, stayed at the top of the rubble, whining in protest as he looked from Mason to the freedom of the outdoors.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going, but first we need to give Lenny the justice he deserves.”

Mason sat with his back against the wall, the M4 resting across his lap. It was a position he had been in more times than he cared to count. The calm before the storm.

He glanced over at Lenny and saw that the man’s eyes were open and studying him.

“You’re awake.”

Lenny nodded weakly. “Are you ready?”

“Just waiting on the enemy.”

“You should go, Marshal. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“Maybe not, but I would.”

“This isn’t your fight.”

“That’s debatable. Either way, this is what I do.”

“The soldiers who come for me will be violent, well-trained men.”

From what Mason knew of the Black Dogs, that was indeed an accurate description.

“I would expect nothing less.”

“But you still think you can stop them?”

“I can fight them. The rest we’ll leave for fate to decide.”

Lenny extended his hand. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to shake your hand before I go.”

Mason leaned over and gripped the man’s hand. There wasn’t much strength left in it.

“It’s been an honor, Marshal.”

Mason nodded. “If the fight goes well, I’ll stay with you until you pass.”

Lenny stared up at him, holding back tears.

“I appreciate that. I don’t think it’ll be long.”

“No,” he said, “not long.”

“I’m glad to be leaving this world. What happened here was too much for anyone to wash from their mind… from their soul.” He swallowed to keep from crying. “I don’t have any fight left in me.”

Mason stood up and readied his M4.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I still have plenty.”

A voice broke over the radio. Mason couldn’t make it out, but the signal was clearly getting stronger. The cord tied to his waist suddenly jerked tight, slackened, and then tugged at him a second time. They were coming.

He untied the cord and tossed it away. Two minutes later, voices crackled over the radio. This time they were clear.

We found a way in.

Hold one. I’ll watch your six.

Roger. Holding.

Bowie growled, and Mason leaned down to stroke the dog’s head.

“Yeah, boy, they’re coming.”

Leila heard the X-49 SpeedHawk only seconds before it appeared over the top of the Lexington Financial Center. She jerked the cord twice and then dropped it on the ground. There wasn’t time to get back down to the bank where Annie and Flynn were hiding, so she stumbled over tables, concrete blocks, and all manner of memorabilia, searching for a suitable place to hide in the museum’s ruins. She finally stopped and squatted behind an old-fashioned carriage that must have been part of a Colonial exhibit. It had flipped onto its side, and one of its large wooden wheels spun in the air like the blades of a miniature smock windmill.

She drew the Beretta and checked the chamber. It was ready to fire, but the first shot would be double-action. Normally, that wouldn’t have been a problem, but working the long trigger pull weak-handed would be hard to do with any kind of accuracy. Deciding to trade a little safety for ease of use, she used her right thumb to cock the hammer. Reducing the trigger pull down to roughly five pounds would make it much easier to shoot but also easier to accidentally discharge. She would need to be careful.