After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 3): Shoot Last Read online

  The problem with that one was that, yeah, he could take out the speaker, but what about whoever—or however many—were still in the house? There could be two or three or ten of them in there, just waiting for an excuse to come out and shoot him dead. That is, if they heard him taking out their guy.

  Smith still had the knife, and if he could reach the man before he was spotted…

  “What the hell are you doing?” Blake hissed.

  Smith wasn’t aware that he’d made his decision even while he was doing it, but suddenly he had pushed away from the wooden siding of the shack and stepped out into the open.

  No turning back now!

  His eyes blinked violently, trying to fight back the spotlights attacking him from different angles. There were at least a dozen lights strategically placed around him, encircling the ranch property, on tall poles that he hadn’t seen before in the dark. Or as much “encircling” as was possible with only twelve of them against such a big swath of land. They were wisely concentrated around the house and barn, along with the shack Smith and Blake had been hiding behind. There was the very loud hum of a generator in the background, coming from somewhere behind the house.

  But Smith could only focus on the stabbing pain in his eyeballs, because goddamn it was bright all around him. Or maybe it wasn’t that bright but only appeared so because he’d been skulking around in the darkness for so long. Whatever the truth was, his head was spinning as he pushed through the discomfort.

  There was no choice now. It was run or fight.

  And he didn’t feel like running.

  Smith’s right hand hovered over his holstered sidearm even as his left dipped, found, and jerked on the handle of the knife in its sheath along his left hip. The weapon—the same one he’d been using to stab ghouls all night—was nine inches long, with five of that made up of a double-edged, silver-coated blade. The handle was black rubber and cold against his palm but also strangely very reassuring as he slid it out of its housing.

  When he made his move, Smith had turned toward where he’d last heard the owner of the voice speaking to the other man on the radio. He was hoping the guy was still there and hadn’t moved very much.

  He was.

  Tall and gangly, wearing a black jacket and cargo pants that might have made him blend in with the night if he wasn’t standing in a thick pool of bright light. He had a long beard that drooped down halfway to his chest and was, of course, armed. The man had a gun belt with a pistol still in its holster, and there was a rifle slung over his back, the black plastic buttstock jutting out from behind his right shoulder. He held a radio in his right hand even as he scanned the property, left hand shielding his eyes because apparently even he was somewhat caught off guard by the sudden flood of lights.

  Well, at least it’s not just me!

  It didn’t take the man very long to either hear, sense, or smell Smith’s presence, though. He began turning around, even as his right hand—with the radio—fell to his side. That was going to be problematic, Smith thought, because the man would have to drop the portable two-way first before he could grab his weapon.

  A problem for the guy, but good for Smith, because it gave him additional time to take four quick steps toward the man, cutting the distance between them even further. Twenty meters became eighteen, then sixteen, then fifteen before the man’s hand released the radio and he went for his gun. He was at least smart enough to reach for the pistol instead of trying to unsling his rifle, which would have taken even more time.

  The knife was already in Smith’s hand. He switched it to his right—he was shit with his left and had never made any effort to be ambidextrous—and raised it while gripping the sharp silver-coated point. He wasn’t going to need the precious silver for this, because his target was very much human.

  Smith flung the blade and it—embedded into the man’s left palm.

  Sonofabitch, Smith thought even as he watched the Gaffney man open his mouth and let out a surprised grunt. It didn’t actually sound like pain, but more surprise, if the look on his face was any indication.

  Smith shared that emotion, because he hadn’t expected the guy to lift his left hand in an attempt to ward off the knife. But he had, and instead of landing in his chest where Smith was aiming, the blade had gone through the guy’s palm, the sharp end coming out the other end.

  All right. Let’s do this the hard way, then.

  Not that he had any choice now. He was still too far away to make up the distance and reach the man first before he could pull his gun. Thirteen meters, give or take. Not far, but not close enough, either.

  And the guy was already drawing his weapon. It looked like a Glock.

  Smith beat him to it, pulling the SIG and shooting the man in the forehead even as Tall and Gangly dropped his left hand—with the knife sticking out of it—while he raised his own weapon with his right.

  He ran toward Tall and Gangly even as the man slumped to the ground, his drawn gun falling soundlessly beside him.

  “Blake!” Smith shouted.

  He didn’t look back to see if Blake had heard him or was responding. He streaked toward the fallen man and snatched the fallen gun—he was right; it was a Glock G34—and shoved it behind his waistband. He didn’t bother searching for a spare magazine along the man’s pouches or pockets, even though he was sure there would be at least one somewhere. There was no time. Instead, Smith pulled his knife out of the man’s palm and sheathed it, then rolled the dead body over—the man’s eyes glared back at him—and wrestled the rifle free.

  It was an AR-15 with a collapsible stock. Like with the Glock, Smith didn’t bother searching for extra mags for the rifle. He stood back up even as Blake ran toward him, the sound of her footsteps reaching him just before—

  Clop-clop-clop!

  Horses, coming from the other side of the ranch.

  Smith glanced over just as the first of the three riders appeared out of the darkness, flying across the property in their direction.

  One horse, then two—then three.

  “What now?” Blake was shouting as she reached him.

  Smith whirled back toward the house, less than thirty meters away. He was shocked no one had burst out through the double doors yet, and he couldn’t see anyone moving around in any of the windows, on the first or second floor. Was it possible Tall and Gangly was the only one left in the place? Was he that lucky?

  I can’t be that lucky.

  Could I?

  He turned, looking toward the barn, on the other side of the property. He couldn’t miss it. It was broad and red and practically shining underneath all the bright spotlight. No one was flooding out of it, either.

  …underneath all the bright spotlight…

  Shit. They were standing out in the open, looking very much like sitting ducks right now. Even a blind man could pick them off with a rifle.

  Smith considered his options.

  He had, again, just two: Run or fight.

  No, that wasn’t true. There was a third option this time.

  Take cover.

  Smith ran toward the house.

  “Where are you going?” Blake asked as she ran after him. He assumed she was on his heels. Just to be sure, Smith glanced back—

  Yup, there she was, chasing after him, even if the look on her face was one of puzzlement and…was that annoyance?

  Yeah, that was definitely annoyance.

  “Smith!” she shouted when he didn’t answer fast enough.

  “Taking cover!” he shouted back.

  “Where?”

  “The house!”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  The loud, air-splitting pop! of an incoming gunshot answered Blake for him. The round zipped over his head and pekked! against one of the double doors of the house, splintering wood as it embedded into the heavy frame.

  Don’t be locked, Smith thought. Don’t be locked!

  What were the chances Tall and Gangly had locked the doors after coming out of th
e building? That seemed unlikely. Besides, Smith hadn’t seen any keys on the man. Of course, he hadn’t exactly searched the body thoroughly—

  Pop-pop-pop!

  He ducked his head instinctively as the gunshots fought with the clop-clop-clop of storming horse hooves. Both sounds were getting louder as they neared. That was all the incentive he needed to run faster. The other reason to do so was bullets buzzing around him, more than a few of them striking the house in front of him.

  Another round went into the door, while two others knocked loose chunks of brick and mortar along the walls that flanked the entryway. Puffs of dirt erupted in front and alongside him as other bullets fell short.

  Smith thanked God the shooters were on horseback. Even the best marksman would have trouble hitting a moving target from a hundred or so meters away while sitting in the saddle of a galloping animal. He knew he would, and Smith was a better shot than most people.

  “Shit!” Blake shouted just before she appeared on his right.

  For a second, before she ran past him.

  Damn, she’s fast.

  Of course, she wasn’t carrying an extra sidearm and a rifle—

  The AR. Why the hell was he carrying it? It was only slowing him down. Besides, if they made it into the house, a rifle was only going to become a liability in the small and probably cramped quarters.

  Smith tossed the weapon and picked up speed. Or he thought he did, anyway. He was probably just telling himself lies again.

  Blake reached the doors first, grabbed one of the handles, and began pulling it open—

  Pop! followed by a pek! as a chunk of thick oak wood broke apart two feet above her head, showering her with splinters.

  “Goddammit!” Blake shouted as she ducked her head instinctively.

  She pulled the door—and it opened.

  My lucky day! Smith thought as he watched Blake lunging inside.

  Smith didn’t hesitate and followed her in. He spun on his feet and slammed his shoulder into the door even as the pop-pop-pop of rifle fire continued. He pushed and felt, as well as heard, the pek-pek-pek! of rounds striking the heavy slab of wood on the other side as he shoved it closed and back into its frame.

  Bam! as the door landed, and Smith thought the entire house shook from the effort.

  Smith searched for, found, and slid the large and heavy deadbolt into place.

  “Smith,” Blake said from behind him. She sounded strangely calm.

  “What?” Smith said as he took one, then two steps away from the door.

  “Smith,” Blake said again. That time, there was something in her voice that wasn’t so calm.

  What now?

  He turned, his right hand dipping toward his hip and the holstered SIG.

  Blake was in front of him, but there was another figure standing just inside a back hallway, holding a shotgun across the living room at them.

  “I think you folks snuck into the wrong house,” the woman said.

  Yeah, I think so, too, Smith thought.

  Eleven

  .3 seconds.

  That was how long it would take Smith to draw and shoot the SIG from the hip. The fastest he’d ever managed the feat, when he still gave a damn about measuring such things, was .220 seconds.

  But Smith had gotten slow in his old age. That, and the lack of opposing fast draws to test his speed, meant he’d let himself slip a little. Or a lot. How much he’d gotten slower was yet to be determined.

  So, .3 seconds.

  Give or take.

  It wasn’t a very long time at all. The average human took anywhere from .2 to .25 seconds to react to something. So, in theory, Smith should be able to draw and fire and hit the woman where she stood—about fifteen meters away, on the other side of the living room—before she could get off a shot of her own.

  In theory, anyway.

  The reality was more problematic.

  For one, Blake was in his way. The blonde stood almost exactly in front of Smith, hindering enough of his vision that he could only see a portion of the gunwoman standing on the other side of her. Not that Smith missed the pump-action shotgun in her hands or the fact she was wearing a one-piece cotton nightgown with floral arrangements. Clearly, the woman had been woken up in the middle of the night by all the gunfire.

  That was the first problem.

  The second was that the woman’s weapon was aimed squarely at Blake, who stood about a full meter in front of Smith. If she pulled the trigger, Blake was dead. And depending on what kind of shell that shotgun was loaded with, some of the buckshot that ended Blake’s life would also find its way to Smith. He’d be hurt, but alive, since he wouldn’t take the full brunt of the shell’s load. But if the shotgun was loaded with slug rounds, then he’d be spared the collateral damage.

  Blake, on the other hand…

  Either way, Blake was in trouble.

  He was too, potentially, but not nearly as much even in a worst-case scenario. After all, he was pretty sure he could kill the woman before she could rack and fire her weapon a second time.

  And that was what he was going to have to do. Kill a woman.

  Could he do that? Yes. He’d done it before. He hadn’t liked doing it. In fact, it’d made him a little sick when he found out she was a woman, but he’d done it because he had to. Just like he was going to have to here, unless there was a way out of this.

  And right now, Smith didn’t see any other way.

  “Where is he?” the woman said. “Where’s Peter?”

  Peter? Smith thought. Who’s Peter?

  Then, as the clues slid into place…

  Tall and Gangly. That has to be Peter.

  Not that the dead man’s identity mattered anymore. He may or may not have been Peter, but the results were the same: Peter was nowhere to be found, and this woman with a shotgun pointed squarely at Blake was looking for him.

  The woman stood partially in shadows provided by the back hallway opening, but Smith was still able to make out her long, red hair. It was spilled haphazardly over her shoulders, another sign that she’d been rustled out of bed. Unlike Tall and Gangly, she hadn’t gotten properly dressed, but she’d gotten properly armed, which was what Smith was concentrating on at the moment.

  It was all he was concentrating on at the moment.

  They were inside a living room that had been converted and made bigger. The entire first floor looked as if it had been gutted, the walls torn down, and all that remained was one large meeting area. It was too dark inside for Smith to make out everything clearly, but there was a kitchen to his right, many of its appliances exposed by shafts of light coming from the spotlights outside. A fireplace to his left, also partially illuminated, along with chairs and tables and possibly a sofa or two.

  But it was the very obvious and very dangerous woman in front of Blake that demanded every ounce of Smith’s focus at the moment.

  You’re going to have to kill a woman.

  Goddammit.

  Unless, of course, they could talk their way out of this.

  “Peter?” Blake was saying. She had her hands raised, her back to Smith. He couldn’t see her face, so he couldn’t tell how scared she was right now. He looked for signs she was shaking, but he couldn’t find any. “Who’s Peter?”

  “Where is he?” the woman said. There was an edge to her voice. “What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing,” Blake said.

  “Stop lying!”

  “I don’t know who Peter is.”

  “He went outside to see what the commotion was.”

  “I still don’t know who Peter is.”

  That was a lie, obviously. Like Smith, Blake would have no doubt already put two and two together, and reasoned that the dead man Smith had shot was this Peter the woman was looking for. And yet, Blake’s voice remained incredibly calm as she answered, almost as if she believed what she was saying. He still couldn’t detect any shaking in Blake’s posture, but damn if she wasn’t doing an amazing job staying
calm as she answered the very agitated woman.

  The very agitated woman with a shotgun. A loaded shotgun, no doubt. What were the chances it wasn’t? And could he really afford to entertain such thoughts?

  No. No, he couldn’t.

  “Where is he?” the woman insisted.

  “Who?” Blake said.

  “Peter! What did you do to Peter!”

  “Nothing. I didn’t do anything to him.”

  Well, that wasn’t entirely a lie. Blake hadn’t done anything to Tall and Gangly. Smith had. He’d shot the man dead.

  The woman took a couple of steps forward, exposing more of herself. The one-piece nightgown was slightly faded, well worn. She was in her fifties, with heavy crow’s feet along the corners of her eyes, and wearing slippers, of all things. She didn’t look as if she had any spare shells for the shotgun on her, not that she needed them. The weapon—it looked like a Remington 870 to Smith—was steady in her hands. She had the forefinger of her right hand in the trigger guard, on the trigger itself, while her left hefted the heavy weapon underneath the forend, ready to rack the shotgun to reload it.

  She knows how to use that thing. That’s not good.

  “Look, this is all a big misunderstanding,” Blake was saying.

  “Shut up,” the woman said.

  “Let’s talk—”

  “I said, shut up!” Then, her dark blue eyes snapped from Blake to Smith, who was standing behind her: “You. Step out from behind her and to the side so I can see you.”

  Smith didn’t move.

  .3 seconds.

  He needed .3 seconds.

  Maybe less than that, if he really tried his damnedest.

  And right now, that was what he was going to have to do.

  “You hear me?” the woman said. She sounded even more annoyed than before. “I said, get out from behind her, so I can see you.”

  “Let’s talk this over,” Blake said. “This is just a misunderstanding. We can talk this out.”

  “Shut up! Where’s Peter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  One step to the right. Draw, then fire.

  Or maybe draw while stepping to the right.

  Unless, of course, Blake could talk their way out of this. Smith didn’t have too much confidence in that, though. The woman looked determined to find out what had happened to Peter, and all she’d have to do to uncover the truth was look outside and see Tall and Gangly lying dead out there.