“Help me lift off this top,” Jack said.
“What on earth for?”
“Let’s just do it.”
Tom grabbed one side, Jack the other. They lifted it, tilted it, and leaned it against the kitchenette counter. Then Jack reached into the hollow interior of the post and came up with a black plastic bag. Its lumpy contents clunked together as he laid it on the counter.
“What the hell? How’d that get in there?”
“I put it in the other day. Let me tell you, I had one hell of a time maneuvering that tabletop around on my own.”
“But what’ve you got in there?”
Jack reached in and came out with a fist-size lump of metal that he flipped over the counter. Tom caught it, saw what it was—a smooth metal sphere the size of a tennis ball, with a key ring at the top attached to a safety clip—and felt his heart trip over a beat.
“A grenade?”
“M-67s. I had a dozen sent down after seeing that gator.”
“Sent down when? I never saw any—” And then it hit him. “The toys. They were in the toys, right?”
Jack gave him a tight smile. “Right. I also—”
“Hey!” Carl called from the bathroom. “You got a gun in this wall!”
“What?”
A gun? In his wall? Tom started toward the bathroom but Jack got there first. Carl had pulled the medicine cabinet from the wall, exposing the studs and the unfinished backside of the Sheetrock of the opposite wall. The end of an empty metal tube jutted a couple of inches up from the lower end of the space. It had a blued-steel finish and looked like an open plumbing pipe until Tom spotted the bead sight on the end and realized this was the business end of a shotgun barrel.
Jack fished it out and handed it to Carl. Its black polymer stock barely reflected the overhead lights.
“Ever use a shotgun?”
Carl laughed. “You kiddin? Fed myself mostly by fishin and huntin before I came to work here. If’n I wasn’t no good, I’da starved.” He took it from Jack and hefted it. “But I ain’t never see one like this before.”
Neither had Tom. He saw a breechlock, a magazine tube, but where was the slide handle?
“It’s a Benelli—an M1 Super 90, to be exact. I think the semi-auto action will work best for you.”
“A semi-auto shotgun?” Tom said. “I didn’t even know they made such a thing.”
“She’s a beauty,” Carl said. “I like the rubber grip. Kinda like a pistol.”
“Very much like a pistol. Will you be able to handle it?”
“Sure. I told you—”
“I mean”—Jack glanced at Carl’s right sleeve—“will you need to modify the stock or anything?”
“Nuh-uh. I’ll be fine.”
“Great. Excuse me, Dad,” he said as he turned and edged by Tom into the front room. “Be back in a minute.”
Without another word he ran out into the storm. Two minutes later he returned, dripping, carrying an oblong object wrapped in a blanket Tom had last seen in the linen closet. He pulled it off to reveal another shotgun.
“I’ll use this one,” Jack said.
With its ridged slide handle riding under the barrel, this one was more like how Tom pictured a shotgun. Its polymer stock was done up with standard camouflage greens and browns.
“It looks military,” Tom said.
“It is. It’s a Mossberg 590, made to military specs. Very reliable.” He started across the front room. “Now…one last thing and we’ll be set to go.”
Tom followed Jack around to the guest bedroom where Jack pulled out the bottom drawer on the dresser and laid it on the floor. Tom watched in shock as his son reached into the space beneath and produced one box of shells, then another, then another…
“Jesus, Jack! Did you think you were going to war?”
“After I saw that gator, I figured a little old 9mm pistol wasn’t going to do the job, so I ordered up some heavy artillery.”
“Buttwo shotguns?”
“Well, yeah. One for here and one for the car, in case something happened while we were out.”
Carl stepped into the doorway, carrying the Benelli. “What you got this loaded with?”
“With what’s known as a ‘Highway Patrol cocktail’—alternating shells of double-ought buckshot and rifled slugs.” He held up one of the boxes. “Here are our reloads.”
Tom felt a tightening in his chest. He didn’t know if it was his heart or dismay at what was happening here. He slipped past Carl, went to his own bedroom, and pulled the M1C from the closet. He carried it back to Jack and Carl.
“What are you doing with that?” Jack said.
“Well, since I can’t talk you out of this insanity, I guess I’ll have to come along.”
“No way, Dad.”
Tom felt his anger flare. “Aren’t you the one who just gave me a lecture on going out for a friend in trouble?”
“Yeah, but—”
“And have either of you ever been in a firefight?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “No, of course not. Well, I have. And that’s what you could very easily wind up in. You’re going to need me.”
“Dad—”
Tom jabbed a finger at him. “Who put you in charge anyway? Besides, your mother would never forgive me if I let you go out there without backing you up. I’m in.”
Jack stared at him a moment, then sighed. “All right.” He held out the Mossberg. “But put away that antique and take this.”
“But I’m more comfortable with—”
“Dad, it’s going to be dark with all sorts of wind and rain. Let’s hope we can pull this off without any gunplay, but if it comes to that, we’ll be working close—maybe twenty-five feet, fifty max. A sniper rifle’s no good in that situation.”
Tom had to admit he was right. He reluctantly took the shotgun.
“But what are you going to use?”
“I’ll have the grenades. But I’ll also have…” Jack reached back into the space below the drawer and pulled out a huge revolver. It had a gray finish and was well over a foot in length. The barrel alone looked to be about ten inches long.
“Oh, man!” Carl said. “What’sthat ?”
“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Tom said.
“A Ruger Super Redhawk chambered for .454 Casull rounds. I do believe this will stop that gator if he shows up again.”
“Looks like it’ll stop a elephant,” Carl said.
A discomforting thought started worming through Tom’s brain.
“Jack…you’re not in one of these right-wing paramilitary groups, are you?”
He laughed. “You mean like the Posse Comitatus or Aryan Nation? Not a chance. I’m not a joiner, and even if I were, I wouldn’t join them.”
“Then what are you? Some sort of mercenary?”
“Why are you asking all this?”
“Why do you think? Because of all these guns!”
Jack looked around. “Not so many.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Jack. Are you a mercenary?”
“If you mean one of those soldiers of fortune, no. But people do hire me to, well, fix things. I guess that might make me a mercenary. But—”
Just then the TV started emitting high-pitched beeps. They all hustled into the front room. A red banner took up the lower quarter of screen, announcing that a hurricane-spawned tornado had set down in Ochopee.
“Where’s Ochopee?” Jack said.
“Other side of the state,” Carl replied. “Way out Route 41.”
Jack looked at Tom. “Anyone wants to back out, now’s the time. No explanation required, no questions asked.”
Carl grinned. “Hey, I live in a trailer park. You know how tornadoes zero in on them places. I figure I gotta be safer out in the Glades.”
Just then, lightning lit the windows, followed by a rumble of thunder.
Tom’s gut crawled, but he said, “Let’s get moving.”
And God help us all.
4
Jack drove his paddle into the water to keep the canoe moving against the wind and driving rain. He had a terrible feeling that it might already be too late for Anya, but if not, then the sooner they reached her, the better.