Blood Bought: Book Four in The Locker Nine Series

by Franklin Horton

  Donnie pondered the unusual shape of the AK pistols with their curved magazines. "You sure you ain’t some kind of robot from the future? That’s some fancy crap right there."

  Tom shook his head. "Not a robot. Just a guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  Donnie shrugged. "I know all about that. Been there myself a time or two.” He tugged on the screen door and held it open with his body. “We’ll get that chair and be back in a second.”

  “You going to be okay?" Tom hissed at Grace.

  Grace frowned, cutting Tom a look that made it clear she thought the question was ridiculous. She could take care of herself. She climbed the porch and leaned her own rifle against the wall beside Donnie’s shotgun. She still had a sidearm and a backup pistol in an ankle holster, not to mention a knife or two scattered on her person. If for some reason Donnie turned out to be a murderous psychopath she’d still be able to defend herself, but that definitely wasn’t the vibe she was getting. He was a grumpy old man, not a dirty old man.

  She breezed through the doorway and entered a stuffy, damp-smelling living room. It reminded her of going inside a camper that had been locked up all summer with no ventilation. The décor was classic old-lady style with lots of embroidered pillows, doilies, and shelves of knickknacks. There were cross-stitch pictures on the wall and crocheted afghans draped across furniture. A sewing basket sat beside a worn wingback chair that must have belonged to Donnie's wife. There was a pillow in the chair with a frail-looking Chihuahua laying limp across it.

  Grace could hear Donnie in the kitchen putting the cans in the cupboard. "That’s not much of a guard dog you got there. Strangers show up and it doesn't budge. I thought Chihuahuas were supposed to be feisty."

  Donnie reappeared in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. He looked at the dog, his face losing all life and animation. He sighed heavily. "Honey, that poor thing died two days ago."

  Grace was immediately creeped out. So many questions came to mind that she couldn’t decide which one to ask first. Before she could put any of those thoughts into words, Donnie beat her to the punch.

  "I know, you’re wondering why I haven't buried her."

  Grace nodded, trying not to look as weirded-out as she felt. "Well, now that you mention it, I was going to ask."

  "It was my wife's dog. When her health started going that little thing was her constant companion. It never cared much for me until after she died, then it kept me company, sitting right there in her favorite chair. It kept her memory alive in some way I can’t even explain. Now that the damn thing is dead, I can’t bring myself to put it in the ground. It’s the last living memory. Was the last living memory."

  The story broke Grace’s heart and she wanted to hug the man but couldn’t bring herself to do it under these circumstances. If this had been six months ago, the two of them standing in a nursing home, she could have done it. Not standing in this rotting home, though, in the presence of a dead dog. That was a little too weird for her.

  "We can help bury it if you want. It’s totally up to you but I dig a pretty mean hole if you need the help."

  Donnie raised his hands noncommittally, his demeanor that of a man about to crumble beneath the weight of his past. "I’ll think about it."

  From the living room, Donnie led Grace down a long narrow hallway. She thought of ranch houses as being similar to trains, a long series of interconnected spaces with a few sleeper cars off to the side. She sensed Donnie hesitate at each room they passed, as if it were on the tip of his tongue to give her a tour but he caught himself.

  The more observant side of Grace wondered if there was a part of Donnie that felt everything in the house worth pointing out was gone. There were children’s room still decorated for kids that hadn’t occupied them in decades. There were storage rooms full of boxes that had not been opened in years. Finally, there was a bedroom shared with the memory of a wife who was dead and buried.

  "How many children did you have, Donnie?" Grace knew the question may take them to uncomfortable territory. She was here in the dark interior of his past and it couldn’t be ignored. The ghosts of his family loomed around her, making themselves known, demanding acknowledgment.

  Donnie sighed as he struggled to gather that information. "I had a son, Donnie Junior, who died in Vietnam. Two daughters. One lives in Florida. She's an accountant. Got two kids that I hardly ever see. They’re probably grown now. The other teaches school in Texas. She's got more kids that I don't ever see. Probably grown too. If there’s a pattern here, it’s a damn depressing one. Can’t thank you enough for bringing it up."

  Grace gave a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Did you ever think about moving closer to one of them?"

  "My wife asked for years and I wouldn’t do it. Stubborn, I guess. Felt like if they weren’t going to come see us, then I wasn’t going to go see them. About the time my wife finally convinced me to consider moving, she up and died on me. I thought more seriously about it then but it didn’t seem right to go without her. I’d have felt guilty for allowing myself a privilege I’d deprived her of."

  "Maybe you can reconsider when things get back to normal. I’m sure your kids would love to have you closer to them. I’m sure your wife would want it."

  Donnie reached the last door in the hallway and paused, holding the doorknob in his hand as if opening it was an act of will he had to muster all his strength to perform. He twisted and pushed, then turned to look at Grace. "I ain't gonna be moving anywhere ever again. I plan on being dead before people are travelling around the country again."

  Grace frowned. "Donnie, that’s not a very positive thing to say. You need to keep a good attitude."

  Donnie laughed as if he were privy to a joke that no one had shared with Grace. "Good attitudes are for the young and dumb, little girl. No offense, but a stubborn old bastard like me knows what the world has planned for the people who live in it. You're born and then the world pecks away at you for your entire life like a buzzard going at a carcass. Then, when you’re too old to bat the thing away anymore, it finally pecks you to death and swallows what’s left."

  Grace smiled at Donnie and patted him on the shoulder. "Anyone ever tell you that you’re a ray of sunshine?"

  Donny chuckled. "My wife." The thought put a momentary smile on his face.

  The bedroom smelled as if mold and mildew were winning the battle to consume the house. The upper half of the walls were drywall painted a mint green. The bottom of the walls, beneath the white painted chair rail, were wood-colored paneling. The floor was covered by a thick olive drab shag carpet that was likely original to the house. The room was set up like a hospital room. There was a patient lift for getting someone in and out of bed, various pill bottles, an intercom system, and an oxygen generator. The oxygen mask itself lay on the pillow like it was awaiting the patient’s return. The covers were thrown back as if Donnie’s wife had been taken from the home moments ago.

  "You sleep in here, Donnie?" She didn’t even know why she was asking. It was clear he hadn’t been.

  He gestured back down the hall. "Nah, I sleep on the couch."

  The wheelchair sat at the foot of the bed. There was a thick wool pad in the seat and a crocheted shawl draped across the back.

  "Are you sure you don't mind if we take it?"

  "I already took your canned soup. A deal is a deal.”

  “If it’s too hard, I can look somewhere else.”

  “I told you already, she made me promise to give this stuff away. As you can see, I’ve done a lousy job of keeping my word. If you take the chair, it’s helping me fulfill that promise. I’ll have one less thing to feel bad about in my life. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  Grace respectfully removed the wheelchair pad and the shawl, placing them neatly on the bed. Donnie stepped to the side and she maneuvered the wheelchair past him. She thought she heard him whispering something before he closed the door to his bedroom but she didn’t catch the words. In a different pl
ace, it would have put her on guard. She would have suspected a trap, but here she knew that wasn’t the case. Maybe he was speaking to his wife. Maybe he was speaking to another of the other ghosts who lived there with him. It was oddly natural. Almost comforting.

  Tom was visibly relieved when she popped back out the front door. From the look on his face, she was sure he’d have been nervously pacing back and forth if it wasn’t such a waste of battery power. She rolled the wheelchair to the end of the porch, then pushed it over the edge, lowering it carefully to the ground. Footsteps told her that Donnie had joined her on the porch.

  “Thank you, Donnie,” Tom said. “I appreciate this very much.”

  Donnie waved a dismissive hand. “Ain’t nothing.”

  Grace extended a hand to Donnie. “Thank you. We’ll get out of your hair. If you need anything, you know where we live, right?”

  Donnie nodded.

  “I’m serious,” Grace said. “I’ll check in on you next time I’m out this way. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Don’t mind a bit. Just announce yourself,” Donnie advised. “I watched a lot of Clint Eastwood in my day.”

  Everyone smiled at the joke, except for Donnie who was serious as a heart attack and not joking at all. Grace hopped off the porch and turned the wheelchair, pushing it out the gate. The whir of motors let her know Tom was on her heels. Grace waited and closed the gate behind him, then they were on their way.

  When they were a distance from the house, Tom couldn’t stand it any longer. “What happened in there? You were gone forever.”

  “There was a lot to wade through.”

  “Trash?”

  Grace shook her head. “Memories.”

  2

  Robert experienced a flood of emotions as the chopper lifted off and pulled away from Arthur Bridges’ compound. The first was exhilaration at the remarkable turn of events. He’d nearly given up hope, certain he’d never make it home to his family. Then, to his surprise, Arthur and Kevin had arranged, and paid for, a private off-the-books chopper flight to get him home. He felt a surge of appreciation for the men he left behind at the compound. They were good people who’d provided a safe harbor to his daughter when she needed it. They’d also opened their arms to Robert and Sonyea when they showed up to collect Grace and Tom.

  Robert felt appreciation for the young man, Brandon Barton, who was in the chopper with them. He didn't know whether Brandon’s presence on this trip was his own idea or originated with Kevin and Arthur. Either way, it could be a game changer. It wasn’t the weapons he brought along. Robert already had plenty of weapons and ammunition. It was more the level of skill he brought to the table. Brandon was a weapon unto himself, an Army-trained sniper with years of combat experience. He was here to lend support in whatever way Robert and his family needed. It was an entirely unexpected and fortuitous turn of events.

  The most powerful emotion Robert was experiencing at the moment was anxiety and anticipation over his reunion with his family. Part of the reason he was so anxious was that Arthur and his friends at the compound were of the opinion that Congressman Honaker might be headed to Damascus, perhaps targeting Robert’s home after his failure to secure Arthur's. All Robert could do was pray that, if this was the case, the congressman and his entourage hadn't arrived yet. If he could beat him there, he could make ready for war.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Chuck's voice over his headset. "You good with me dropping you off where I left your daughter and Tom? I think it was the local high school athletic field. It was a decent landing zone but there were hostiles in the area. I took fire there and I’d like to avoid it this time.”

  "Negative on the football field," Robert replied. "I have something better in mind."

  "I have more fuel than last time but not enough to spend much time cruising around looking for the perfect spot. You certain you can get me there?"

  "I can take you right to it," Robert said. "There's a big hayfield near my house. Bigger than that football field. It's less than a half-mile away from my house and right on the mountaintop. There’s a clear, level spot you should be able to hit with no complications."

  "I wish I’d known about that last time," Chuck replied. "I felt bad about dropping your daughter off in town but I was low on fuel and she didn't have any alternative suggestions."

  "I doubt she knows about this field. She’s probably never scouted for potential landing zones. Oddly enough, I have," Robert said.

  "You're the boss," Chuck said. "We'll eyeball it and see if it works."

  "You just tell me when we’re over Damascus and I'll guide you right to it."

  "We brought a lot of gear," Sonyea said. "It may take a few trips to get everything from the LZ to your home."

  "That’s not a problem. I thought we could leave Brandon watching the gear while we hustle home. I should be able to come back with a vehicle or ATV to haul the gear with. That work for you, Brandon?"

  Brandon gave a stoic nod of agreement. He’d been on a lot of assignments over the years and was nonchalant about dropping into strange territory. It took a lot to get him wound up. Most days he just buried his head and dug into whatever tasks were laid out in front of him. It was how he operated. No whining, no complaining. He would be a solid member on any team.

  "What’s the ETA to Damascus, Chuck?" Robert asked.

  "About twenty minutes."

  Robert tried to put on his most cheerful, optimistic voice, more to convince himself than anyone else. "Well, I hope that we beat the congressman there and everyone is safe. I hope we get to have a nice little reunion, but then we’re going to have to get to work. There’s a lot that will need to be done. If Arthur and Kevin are right that he's headed our way, we’ll be outnumbered. We’ll need every tactical advantage we can get."

  Robert smiled at Sonyea but both his smile and the one she returned were forced. He saw the same anxiety and fear on her face as he felt within himself. He looked away, his eyes landing on Brandon. The young man was studying the terrain out the chopper window, his mind always on the mission. Robert wished he had that kind of focus and single-minded determination.

  "Less than one minute to Damascus," Chuck said, breaking the silence.

  Robert positioned himself to where he had a better view out the window.

  "I'm headed to the central part of town," Chuck said. "From there, it’s up to you to tell me where we need to go."

  "We’ll pass over the center of town and immediately turn to the northeast," Robert said.

  "I’ll go ahead and make that adjustment to our course," Chuck said, banking the aircraft to the right. "Last time I was here I drew rifle fire over the center of town and I’d just as soon not repeat the experience."

  "Got it," Robert replied. "We need to be looking for an old-fashioned railroad depot. It’s a white building with a green metal roof. It will be in a clearing in the country with a church beside it. Look for the green metal roof and the church steeple. There won’t be any other houses nearby. We’ll pick up a paved road there and follow it north to a bridge. At the bridge we turn right and the hayfield should sit at a ten o'clock position relative to the road. It will be at an elevation higher than the surrounding terrain."

  "Acknowledged," Chuck replied.

  Robert had all hands scanning for the old railroad depot but it was Chuck who spotted it first, having the advantage of a much wider field of view out the front of the chopper.

  "Is that your depot?" he asked.

  Robert craned his neck until he finally spotted it. "You got it, buddy. That’s it."

  With that landmark located, Robert’s heart rate accelerated. This was terrain he knew like the back of his hand. He'd hiked and bicycled the ground beneath him hundreds of times. He knew every turn, every bump, every convolution, every drought-resistant mud puddle, and every house. He was home. Finally home.

  "There's the bridge!” Sonyea exclaimed.

  "Glad you spotted it," Chuck said. "It's smaller than
I was looking for."

  "The bridge only spans a little gorge," Robert explained. "Now, you’ll bank right at the bridge like you were driving a car. Immediately ahead of you, at your ten o'clock position, you'll see the grassy hayfield I was talking about. It'll stand out because most of the terrain around it is wooded. Go to the highest point in that hayfield and land in the center of it."

  "Any obstacles I need to be aware of? Cell towers? Powerlines? Swampy ground?"

  "None of that. Like I said, I scouted this a while back for a chopper landing. Just in case, you know."

  “If you see any hazards, shout out. Otherwise, I guess I don't need to tell you guys that this is going to be another turn and burn. I want that door open before we hit the ground. We’ll need somebody out there on security while the other two are pitching out gear. When you’re done, double check that all your gear is offloaded, then lose the headsets. When you’re clear, someone come to my window and give me a thumbs-up. Then I’m out of here.”

  Everyone confirmed they understood the plan. Brandon was appointed to hit the ground first and provide security for the offload. Before they knew it, it was time, and Chuck was instructing them to unfasten their seatbelts. Brandon had readied his weapon and leapt to the ground with no hesitation. A quick scan of the perimeter revealed no one and he gestured to Robert to begin tossing gear. Robert dropped to the ground and Sonyea slid their gear in his direction, one bulky load at a time. He hauled it clear of the chopper and piled it in the waist deep grass.

  When she was done, Sonyea took a quick glance around the interior of the chopper and confirmed nothing remained behind. She ditched her headset and carefully exited the chopper, Robert helping her to the ground. While Sonyea ducked clear of the pounding rotor wash, Robert moved forward and made eye contact with Chuck, giving him a thumbs-up and a quick wave.

  The engine powered up, the thrum of the rotors increased, and debris rose from the ground. The three covered their eyes, buried their heads, and waited for the pummeling to end. It mercifully began to recede when the chopper raised from the ground and lifted away from them. It was a mixed blessing, their angel of mercy, their deliverance, abandoning them. Before long, it was out of sight, and the thwack of rotors gradually faded to nothing. When it was safe to do so, all eyes opened, looking down the sights of weapons, scanning the terrain around them for anyone drawn to the sound of their arrival.