Blood Bought: Book Four in The Locker Nine Series

by Franklin Horton

  He didn’t know how long he slept but the first rifle shot woke him. Confused, his brain fuzzy with sleep, he wasn’t able to process the sound until the second shot came. He bolted upright and grabbed the steering wheel, staring through the windshield. All he could see was the same pile of downed trees he’d sent his people over before he fell asleep. It was an impenetrable wall of dying greenery.

  He caught movement in his peripheral vision, outside his door. He spun to find an old man’s face right in his, pressed against the glass and peering through cupped hands. Bradshaw flinched reflexively, nearly flinging his body across the center console before he realized it was not an attack. This was probably just some decrepit old local checking him out.

  Bradshaw sat up and gestured at the man to back up. The man did as he was told while Bradshaw lowered his window. “Did I hear a gunshot?”

  “Reckon you heard two,” Donnie said.

  Bradshaw flung open his door and clambered out. He was stiff, one side of his back locked in a spasm from laying in an awkward position. He staggered around for a moment, hand on the small of his back, trying to find relief. “Is there some other way around this?” he asked, gesturing at the log pile.

  Donnie shook his head. “Don’t reckon. Not close by anyway.”

  “Why the hell is it even here?”

  “Reckon they don’t want company.”

  “Who?” Bradshaw asked, hoping the old man might know.

  Donnie shrugged. “Whoever lives on that side. I don’t know. I’m old. I might have known once.”

  “I’m looking for the Hardwick family,” Bradshaw said. “Ever heard of them?”

  “Don’t reckon I have. They loggers? They’s some loggers live up there.”

  “No,” Bradshaw said. “The guy is a writer.”

  Donnie looked suspicious, something clicking, or confirmed, within his head. “You wanting an autograph or something?”

  Bradshaw looked at Donnie like he was an idiot. “No, I don’t want his damn autograph. Now get out of here and leave me alone.”

  “Suit yourself,” Donnie said, heading toward his home.

  Passing the back of Bradshaw’s truck, Donnie leaned over behind it and picked up his shotgun, propped against the tailgate. He swung back toward Bradshaw. The man was paying no attention to Donnie, starting to climb the wall of downed trees to see beyond them.

  “Hey, mister!” Donnie yelled.

  Bradshaw turned. He barely had time to process what he was seeing before Donnie pulled the trigger. The number two shot tore into Bradshaw and caused him to lose his footing. He slipped and tumbled to the ground, hitting several branches on his trip down.

  Donnie pumped the shotgun and fired again, hitting the sprawled man in the chest. Bradshaw arched and tried to push himself up from the ground, fumbling for the handgun at his waist. Donnie pumped and fired again. This time Bradshaw dropped and was still. He did not move again.

  Donnie pulled fresh shells from his pocket and reloaded the shotgun. He lowered the tailgate on Bradshaw’s and took a seat. All the excitement had made him tired. He decided he might as well wait around and see how the party ended. There might be more excitement before this day was over.

  30

  With Debbie heading her way, Grace shoved the spotting scope in her pack and made a quick pass for any gear she may have left laying out. She picked up her rifle, slung it over her back, and wove her way out of the camouflaged observation post. It was too far up the hillside for her to engage Debbie from that position with any certainty. She didn’t have a long-range optic and she’d only be able to get one or two shots before Debbie disappeared from view. Losing Debbie again was not an option.

  The fact that Mrs. Brown had let Debbie go before still bothered her. Grace had known at the time that they weren’t done with Debbie. She knew they’d cross paths with her again. Grace thought she was demonstrating compassion at the time, letting Mrs. Brown make the decision. It was something her father always said was easy to lose when there was no law. Debbie had raised the stakes significantly by compromising the security of their family. She’d brought strangers here, armed men. She couldn’t do that again. Grace wouldn’t allow it.

  She hurried down the steep hillside, taking small, shuffling steps against the incline. She vaulted a downed tree and plowed right through a blackberry bush, the thorns scratching her arm and snagging on her gear. An unwise foot placement on a cantaloupe sized rock sent her sprawling when the rock rolled and she lost her balance, going down hard. She picked herself up, dusted off, and kept going.

  When she reached the edge of the road, she was at the top of a twenty-foot bank. The incline was near vertical, covered with loose, decomposed shale as slippery as marbles. She jumped, landing on both feet. She fought to keep her balance as she skied down the bank on the soles of her boots. At the bottom, she overcorrected and sat down, sliding the last two feet on her butt.

  She shot to her feet and started running in Brandon’s direction. Somewhere between them was Debbie. The thought entered her mind that Debbie might flee into the woods but she thought that unlikely. Debbie didn’t know this area and the woods were slow going. Having seen her companions killed, it was likely she wanted to cover ground, put distance between her and whoever fired those shots.

  Grace didn’t go far before she encountered the next log barricade, the only one separating her position from Brandon’s. As she was looking for the best line for climbing over it, she saw branches move and froze. She heard mumbling and cursing, gasps of ragged breathing. Then she saw Debbie top the uppermost log and start down toward her. She was less than ten feet away.

  Grace started swinging her rifle up but Debbie, changing positions to scoot off a high branch, caught the movement. In a completely unexpected move, she leapt for Grace, emitting a fierce, snarling roar of rage. Grace didn’t have time to take a shot. Debbie landed on her before Grace even flipped the safety off.

  Debbie wasn’t heavy and she wasn’t strong but she had momentum. Grace was knocked over backward, her head impacting the hard gravel surface of the road. The blow was lessened by the fact that Grace was still wearing her pack, but it stunned her. Debbie threw a wild blow at Grace’s face, although it was more of a reaction than a punch. It didn’t do any damage and she didn’t stick around to fight. She was on her feet and running in seconds.

  Grace shook it off, rolled over, and launched herself after Debbie, spinning her rifle into position as she ran. She wanted to take the shot but she was gaining ground fast. The thirty feet that initially separated them was already down to about twelve. In a few steps she’d be on her. She could take this chick down.

  In five more steps, she was able to plant both hands on Debbie’s scrawny back and shove. Debbie couldn’t compensate for the sudden change in momentum and fell forward, body surfing the gravel on her face and chest.

  She cried out but it was cut off when Grace landed on her back. Grace was strong and outweighed Debbie by nearly thirty pounds of muscle, plus an additional twelve pounds of gear. The impact of her crushing down on Debbie drove the woman’s breath from her. Grace hooked a forearm around Debbie’s neck, dug her heels into Debbie’s thighs, and rolled her.

  “I should have killed you when we found you in that shed,” Grace hissed. “It was a fucking mistake to let you live.”

  “Let me go!” Debbie snarled.

  She tried to elbow Grace but Grace was too tight against her and the blows didn’t land. When that failed, she tried prying at Grace’s arm, digging her claws into her forearm.

  Grace jammed her arm tighter against Debbie’s windpipe. “Quit fighting. I only let you live then out of respect for your mother. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Debbie dropped her arms to her sides, struggling for air and no longer resisting. “She probably regrets that mistake too,” Debbie said. “It cost her. It cost her big time.”

  Grace tightened her grip further, not restraining Debbie now but choking her hard. De
bbie threw both hands to Grace’s forearms again, tugging desperately, but she couldn’t pry the iron grip free. “Did you do something to her? What did you do?”

  The only response was a garbled choking sound. She eased her grip.

  “Did you do something to her?” Grace demanded, repeating the words slowly and clearly.

  “I killed her!” Debbie spat, throwing out the words as if they were a weapon intended to hurt Grace. Then she screamed it as if she wanted the entire world to know. “I KILLED HER!”

  The words achieved their intended affect. Grace stung with the realization that what Debbie said was likely true. This was not an attempt to make Grace let her go. This was a confession designed to make Grace hurt. It was the only weapon Debbie had to wield. The only way she could inflict damage.

  “Why?”

  If Grace expected an outpouring of emotion, a confession that Debbie did it because she never felt like her mother loved her, she wasn’t getting it. Debbie wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “Because I wanted to. Because I hated her!”

  Grace tightened the pressure again, ready to throttle the life from this woman. Then she was slammed with the awareness of the one missing piece to this story.

  “Where’s Dylan? You kill your son too? What kind of—”

  When there was only choking, wet gurgling in response, she had to release the pressure again.

  Debbie shook her head in the minimal space she was able to. “No,” she croaked. “Little bastard…ran away. Must have figured out…what happened.”

  Grace was overwhelmed. Mrs. Brown dead and Dylan lost out there somewhere? She didn’t know what to do. She heard the pounding of boots on pavement.

  “Grace! I’m coming!”

  Brandon had caught up with her. She wouldn’t let him take this from her. She was doing this for Mrs. Brown. She was doing this for Dylan. She was doing this for her entire family.

  Her right arm still crushed against Debbie’s windpipe, she hooked her left hand around the back of Debbie’s head. Her right hand grasped the left bicep and she started squeezing. The boots were getting closer. Debbie’s head began moving to the left, unable to resist the fatal leverage. Grace tightened, grimaced, then screamed from the effort.

  “Grace!” Brandon yelled.

  There was a wet pop within Debbie and her body went limp. Grace shoved the woman off her and rolled away. Brandon was there, reaching for her, a hand on her shoulder. She started to say something to him but vomited, splattering his boots. Her arms trembled from the effort and the adrenaline.

  “Deep breaths, kid,” Brandon whispered. “It’s okay.”

  “Get Tom on the radio,” she panted.

  He wasted no time carrying out her instructions. “Brandon for Tom.”

  “Go for Tom,” came a reply. Both Grace and Brandon could hear the reply in their earpieces.

  “What do you need to tell him, Grace?” Brandon asked.

  She tried to push herself up, but her face flushed blood red and she vomited again. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, then spat. “Tell him to relay a message to my dad. Debbie killed her mother. Dylan is lost and we need to find him.”

  “Roger that,” Tom said. “Hold on.”

  Grace got to her feet unsteadily. She walked around, taking deep breaths and trying to clear her head. She cast one dispassionate glance toward Debbie’s body and had no reaction. What she’d done didn’t bother her but how she’d done it was something she’d remember for the rest of her life. That sound. That feeling.

  “Your dad says he’s coming around the back way in the ATV. Meet him at the intersection,” Tom said.

  “Got it,” Brandon replied. “I’m going with Grace. If Robert is coming our way, you should probably retreat and take a position at the house, Tom. We shouldn’t leave it unprotected.”

  “Roger that,” Tom said. “Going now.”

  “Let’s go,” Grace said.

  She took off running without waiting for a response from Brandon. Brandon fell in alongside her and they hauled ass to the first log pile and starting climbing. When they topped it, they found Donnie pointing a shotgun at them.

  “It’s okay!” Grace said, quickly trying to defuse the situation. “It’s us, Donnie.”

  She wasn’t sure how well Donnie could see them and she didn’t want him firing as a cautionary measure. She also didn’t want Brandon drawing down on Donnie and pumping rounds into him for the same reason. Donnie mercifully lowered the shotgun.

  “Heard some shooting,” he said. “Reckon you took care of business?”

  “I heard some too,” Grace said. “You taking care of business?”

  Donnie pointed to the base of the log barricade, right to the point where Grace and Brandon would soon be climbing down. “The enemy of my friend is my enemy.”

  Grace smiled. She finished descending, stepping wide around the pool of congealing blood at the base of the barricade. Brandon reached the bottom about the same time and she took a moment to introduce the two men.

  “Listen, Donnie, we don’t have a lot of time. Can you help us?”

  Donnie looked at his watch. “Yeah.”

  Grace frowned. “Why did you look at your watch? You have somewhere to be?”

  “No. It’s habit.”

  “We’re going to take this truck. We need to go back to the intersection. My dad is meeting us there. I don’t want to wait. There’s a kid we know lost between here and town. A little kid. I don’t want to waste a second that I could be looking for him. We can’t reach my dad on the radio right now. Do you mind waiting at the intersection and telling him what we’re doing?”

  Donnie shook his head. “Don’t mind a bit. All this excitement has perked me up a bit. I feel pretty good.”

  “Great,” Grace said.

  Brandon, as he usually preferred, rode in the back. Donnie hopped up front with Grace, his shotgun handy.

  “Hold on!” Grace called out the window.

  She made a rapid three-point turn and punched the gas. The truck spun the tires on the gravel surface, then barreled down the road, clouds of dust rising in its wake.

  31

  Muncie was sitting in the dirt, his back against the rough bark of a broad tree. He was eating a thin soup with rice and some vegetables. Before they’d fed him, they helped him find some ill-fitting clothes from a church donation bin. He felt like a refugee. He couldn’t wait to be back in his own clothes, with his own gear. He was going to blow out of this town and never look back.

  “They get you situated?” a voice asked.

  Muncie looked up from his cup of soup to find Miller and two other men standing above him.

  He nodded. “I appreciate it. It’s been a rough couple of days. A little hospitality goes a long way.”

  Miller lowered his voice, threw a quick glance around to see if anyone might be listening to them. No one appeared to be interested. “That hospitality is what I wanted to talk to you about. Our ability to be hospitable is running a little slim. We’re running out of food and running out of options.”

  “Don’t you guys have control of the grocery stores? Looks like you’re in control of the entire town.”

  “The grocery stores are pretty much empty,” Miller said. “After the first people made a run on them, everyone else got scared and did the same. Soon it was like they were anticipating a blizzard. Every shelf got cleaned out. There’s not much left but laundry detergent and greeting cards.”

  “That sucks,” Muncie said. He turned his cup up and drained it, tapping it with a finger to shake loose every grain of rice.

  “That’s why we wanted to talk to you. We need to know more about these bastards that cut off your hand. We can’t let them come in here and take what little we have. Plus, if we’re going to drive them away we might as well lighten their load a little, if you know what I mean.”

  “You want to take their supplies?” Muncie asked.

  Miller nodded. It was all Muncie could do
to choke back a broad smile. The congressman was about to get what he deserved. The only part that bothered him was that he wouldn’t be there to see it. He hoped to be long gone by then.

  “What can you tell us about them?” Miller asked.

  “I think it’s a bunch of rogue cops mostly,” Muncie said. “There’s a fat one named Honaker who I think is in charge. He’s got an old guy named Jacobs who hangs with him all the time. He’s like the second in command or something. Whatever you do, you need to take those two out. They’re the head of the snake.”

  Muncie shot a glance at the men behind Miller and saw them nodding. They understood.

  “Where are the supplies kept?” Miller asked.

  “They’re travelling in RVs, campers, and trucks. The supplies are divided up between them. You’d have to search everything.”

  “How many men are we talking about?”

  Muncie shrugged. “Maybe ten. They talked like they had more at one time but they were either dead or out looking for food. There are women and children too.”

  “What’s the story on them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are they combatants?” Miller clarified.

  “I never saw the women or children armed. I think if you’re determined to take the group you need to launch an attack at night. Kill every man you see. Corral the women and kids up. Transfer all the food to a single vehicle and drive it back here.”

  Miller nodded, scrutinizing Muncie with a new perspective. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this.”

  Muncie held up his damaged hand. “A guy does this to you, then takes you prisoner, you got nothing to do but think. What would you think about?”

  “I’d think about ways to take the bastard down,” Miller said.

  Muncie nodded. “You got it, brother. That’s exactly what I did.”

  Miller turned to the other men and smiled. “You guys have any questions?”