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.”
“But two 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’s that ?”
“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.
Carl sat in the stern, working the little motor, steering them along the channel. Dad had the front, Jack the middle seat. When the channel nosed them into the wind, the engine didn’t have what it took to keep them moving; that was when he and Dad put their paddles to use.
He’d never seen rain like this. He’d expected it to be cold, but it was almost warm. When it wasn’t lashing them with horizontal cascades that would put Niagara Falls to shame, it pelted them with huge, marble-size drops that did drum rolls on the hood of his poncho. The rest of the Glades had gone away; the world had narrowed to a short length of the channel’s rippling water with only occasional glimpses of its banks. Everything else, including the sky, had been swallowed by dark gray sheets of wet. Only the ever more frequent flashes of lightning and roars of thunder hinted that there might be a world beyond.
Good thing the hardware store had been open so he and Dad could pick up ponchos—dark green, like Carl’s—and a hand pump. He didn’t want to imagine what this trek would have been like without the ponchos. Jack had his hood pulled tight around his head, the drawstring knotted at his throat. Still he was getting wet.
And the hand pump—they wouldn’t have got even this far without it. Into the wind, they paddled; when the twisting channel put the wind to their backs, Jack let Dad rest while he worked the pump to rid them of the rainwater that kept accumulating around their feet.