Jack dropped the medals into the little case and returned it to the strongbox.

“You keep them. They’re part of who you were.”

“And you might say they’re part of who I still am. That’s why I’ll be backing you up when you go out there to get Carl back.”

“No way.”

“Jack, you can’t go out there alone.”

“I’ll think of something.”

Dad sat silent a moment, then said, “What if I can prove to you that I still have it? Please, Jack. I want to do this with you.”

His father was practically begging Jack to take him along. But damn…it could turn ugly, and then what? He’d never forgive himself if the old guy got hurt.

Still, he felt he owed him a chance.

“Okay, Dad. You’re on—for a test run. How are we going to work this?”

His father’s eyes were bright behind his glasses. “I think I know a way.”

5

The sign shouted DON’S GUNS &AMMO in big red letters—peeling red letters—with Shooting Range below it in smaller black print.

“This must be the place,” Jack said as they pulled into the sandy lot on a rural road in Hendry County.

Only one other car, an old Mercedes diesel sedan, in sight. Probably the owner’s. Opening time was 9:00 A.M. and it was after ten now. Jack figured there probably would be lots more activity once hunting season started, but at the moment he and Dad seemed like the only customers.

They went inside. Behind the counter they found a slim guy with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache. His lined face made him look sixtyish, maybe even older.

“Are you Don?” Dad said, extending his hand.

“That’s me.”

“We called about the M1C.”

They’d made a lot of calls to a lot of gun shops—amazing how many there were in Florida—and not one of them had a M1903A1. But this place said it had an old M1C. Close enough, Dad had said. Hendry County was a good ways north of Gateways, but they’d had no other options.

Don smiled as he lifted the rifle leaning against the wall behind him and laid it on its side, bolt handle up.

“One M1C Garand, coming up. Heavy sucker. Gotta weigh a dozen pounds. But it’s fully rigged—still has the original scope and flash hider.”

“I see that,” Dad said.

Jack was seeing a beat-up piece of junk: The dried-out wooden stock was scratched and dinged and gouged, the metal finish worn, and the whole thing looked like it had just received its first dusting in years.

Dad picked up the rifle and hefted it. In one seamless move he raised it to his shoulder and sighted down the scope.