Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle by Joseph Coley

chamber closed on the revolver again, when he spotted Rip. He quickly brought the gun up and tried to get a bead on him.
    “Irving! You motherfucker!” Crane bellowed, his voice booming as the revolver fired once again.
    Rip's luck was running out as he reached the other side of the warehouse. As he grabbed the metal rack, praying that Jeff had reached his rifle, he felt the round tear through his right bicep. At first, he didn't notice the pain; it just felt like a strong tug at his arm, but searing heat quickly followed. It wasn't until he tumbled down, nearly somersaulting as he tried to avoid more gunfire, that he saw the blood. It wasn't a mortal wound, and Rip had been shot before during two different deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan. It burned like hell, but it was a survivable wound. His rifle shooting would be all to hell for a while, but it wouldn't kill him.
    More rifle rounds pelted the racks and wooden pallets, tearing them apart and raining splinters down on top of him. He leaned against the sturdiest section of the rack that he could find. Grabbing his arm tightly, he tried to stop the bleeding, which was still moderately flowing, despite his iron grip.
    Dammit, Junior. Where the hell are you?
    As if to answer his prayers, rounds began to come from behind him, causing the lackeys to duck away. Crane remained steadfast, popping off two more shots before darting away himself. Jeff had ducked down at the last two shots, temporarily losing sight of Crane. When he rose up again, Crane was nowhere to be seen.
    Cordite and smoke hung in the air, obscuring his view. He searched for a few more seconds, intensely staring at the area where the three men had been. Neither Jeff nor Rip could hear anything; the steady staccato of gunfire had almost completely deadened their sense of hearing.
    Rip was still kneeling down, his hand clamped on the considerable hole in his arm. Jeff grabbed his father up by his good arm, directing him toward the door at the back of the warehouse. They couldn't see either of the two men or Crane, so they took that as their sign to leave.
    Rip nodded vigorously at Jeff as his son semi-dragged him to the door. He couldn't believe his luck, both good and bad up to this point. He had learned to take the good with the bad the last two days, and they seemed to even one another out regularly. He had managed to bond with his son, for what is was worth, over the last few minutes. The hatred was dissipated, replaced by the overwhelming need to survive, a key component of what life was like now. On the other hand, his wife was dead, no killed, by Crane. This was something he would have to take care of—the sooner the better. The bastard was gone, bolted out of the building like the coward he was.
    He's coming, Rip, and I can’t stop him. Get the hell out of there, now!
    That’s right, motherfucker! I’m coming to get you, you worthless fuck!
    Jeff slung the rifle over his shoulder, half-carrying his father toward the door leading outside. He knew that it wouldn't be long before more of the Marshals came looking for him. The gunfire was indoors but bound to attract some more attention to them—attention that they didn't need. He kicked the door open and both men stepped outside.
    Rip gained some of his bearings once he was outside in the fresh air. The cordite and smoke were gone from sight and smell, and the ringing was starting to let up in his ears.
    “We better get the fuck out of Dodge. We need to get back to the Knights and rally the troops. I’m afraid that Crane is gonna take it out on Colonel Patterson and the boys,” Rip said, shifting to where he could stand on his own.
    He was hesitant to say anything about the Horseman coming, but now wasn’t the time for being modest. He knew the Horseman wanted him and would stop at nothing to get hold of him, and that included killing the Knights and the innocents of Fort Drum.
    “We need to stay out of sight; if they see us, we are gonna be in