by Schow, Ryan
In the kitchen, being dragged through broken glass and gore, he finally managed to get his breath back. He slipped out a short blade and drove it into Diesel’s left foot.
Howling out, hobbling back, Walker’s former best friend went on a tirade of cursing that had Walker laughing like a lunatic and coughing up blood in the same breath.
Even though this kind of pain hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced—all those damaged ribs, and maybe some serious spinal injuries from the shotgun blast—it was worth it just to salt his former partner’s game.
The back door was already blown off its hinges and tossed outside. Diesel came back, grabbed him again, and dragged him out back. With a stabbed foot and some growling, he bounced Walker down three patio steps, laid him out in the dirt face up, and dropped a mighty f-bomb. By then, Walker was nearly unconscious from the pain.
“The fact that you smoked Clay tells me everything I need to know,” Diesel hissed. Clay was apparently the guy who arrived on Diesel’s bike, the first guy Walker had shot.
His head was aching from when Diesel bounced it down the stairs, but he managed to say, “I wanted to cut the head off the snake to watch the body die.”
“It was a noble plan,” Diesel said, favoring his stabbed foot. “Unfortunately, it was also a short-sighted plan.”
“I never did like this world that much.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna be in it much longer anyway,” he barked. “Now where is my stuff?”
“Here and there,” Walker said, coughing up sprays of blood.
Diesel knelt down, wet his finger, and jammed it in the canal of the ear that Walker had lost. The pain was instantaneous, enough to elicit a scream. That was before Diesel really started digging in.
“You stabbed my freaking foot!” the man roared.
He didn’t want to give his former friend and business partner the satisfaction of a lasting scream, but at some point, the pain just roared out of him. It was too much.
Diesel took his VP9 back, racked the slide, then shot Walker’s trigger finger off. Walker bit down so hard he broke off the top corner of his molar.
“Where’s my stuff, Walker?”
“It’s inside,” Walker managed to say to the brute he’d spent years at war with. “All of it, inside the house.”
Diesel had the beard of a special operator, close-cropped hair, dark tactical sunglasses raised up on his head, and coffee breath. He never knew how bad his friend’s skin was up close, but then again, they had all but roasted themselves to death in the Middle East on one crap assignment or another.
“Where inside the house?” Diesel asked.
“Back bedroom,” he replied, exhausted. “In a baggie in the toilet tank.”
“Gun, gold, or silver?”
“Gun.”
“What about my gold and silver?”
“Bedside table, closest to the window. Top drawer.”
Diesel waved a few guys inside, then said, “If it’s not there, tear the place apart until you find it!” He turned back to Walker, looked down at him with a frown. “If you’re lying to me…”
Half the guys had already stormed the house. Walker said, “You’re going to need a key, though. I’ll get it.”
Looking up at Diesel, seeing the face that once gave him comfort on the battlefield, he shuddered with fear. Strangely, though, he also held a deep sadness within him. No matter the certainty of his or Diesel’s fate, he reached for the side pocket of his tac-vest. Fighting to ignore the pain in his back, his ribs, his shoulder, and his neck, he slowly lifted his hand, the one that used to have a trigger finger. In the finger’s place was a blown-apart bone sticking out of a gory stump. Horrified but unwilling to show it, he realized he’d have to improvise. With his thumb and middle finger, he reached inside his vest, found the detonator, depressed the button.
Looking up at Diesel, he smiled just before the entire house exploded. The wash of hot air and fire blasted them both sideways. Splintered wood, powdered drywall, shingles, and a cloud of dirt washed over them in a hellish burst.
When the dust finally settled, Walker was a dozen feet away from what used to be his house. Looking down at his mangled body, he saw his right leg and right arm were on fire. He couldn’t put the flames out because his other arm had a splintered two-by-four shard driven into it. This was just as well. He couldn’t take the pain anymore.
Amell Benson—Diesel’s right-hand man, the ruffian who had ruined everything—hurried over to Diesel, who was also on fire, and quickly patted out the flames on his face and arm.
“I’m fine, Amell,” Diesel barked, getting up and shoving the man aside. But he was not fine. Half his face was blistered red, his ear was charred, and half his beard smoked down to the skin. From where he stood, Walker saw smoke coming off the man’s back. Amell frowned, then looked down at Walker.
“Where’s Diesel’s stuff?” Amell screamed.
Slowly, painfully, barely able to move his arm, Walker pulled his focus inward. He lifted his hand, curled back his ring and pinkie finger, and effectively flipped the man off.
Diesel laughed, then turned, plugged a nostril, and blew out a spray of blackened, bloodied snot. He once loved Diesel like a brother, but he loathed Amell Benson. Amell was the Trojan Horse no one saw coming. This nightmare of a man who made a mess of Diesel’s reason and rationale. Over the months, he had effectively turned Diesel against Walker, and against the nation they once served. Walker and Diesel’s successful private security firm should never have taken the contract Amell brought them, but they did, and now half the nation was paying the price.
Even though Diesel found Walker’s gesture humorous, Amell was not so easily amused. He put a bullet through the center of Walker’s hand. Diesel turned back around in an awkward hobble, half his face a long lick of red, blistered flesh.
Grinding his teeth, his clenched hand sharp with pain, he narrowed his eyes and focused on Amell. The only regret he had left in his life was that he couldn’t kill this nuisance first.
“Why did you have to do this to us?” Diesel finally asked him, heartfelt. “It never had to be like this.”
“Him,” was all Walker could say, his eyes locked on Amell. “You Nazi piece—”
Amell stepped on his throat, cutting off his air supply. Putting more and more weight on his neck, he felt his Adam’s apple being smashed. When the hyoid bone finally broke, it didn’t matter. The pain was already too much. Before he had the chance to die, Amell removed his foot with a sadistic grin. Unfortunately, Walker’s throat was already swelling shut.
As the edges of his vision fuzzed over, closing out the world around him, Diesel’s face appeared front and center. The man had knelt down before him. His mouth was moving, and Walker heard sounds, but his voice sounded so far away.
All he knew was his broken body, his closed throat, his distinct lack of oxygen. He felt himself fading out of the pain, pulling away from his body.
“Just tell me where my stuff is, and I’ll end it quick,” Diesel said.
“Blew it up,” he squeaked out, his eyes bulging, the pressure in his head creating a fissure in his mind.
Diesel lifted his VP9, aimed it at him. At that moment, Walker forced a smile, saw the flash of light, but never heard the crack of gunfire that followed.
His soul was immediately kicked out of his body, Instead of swimming into the light or being dragged down to hell, he simply floated there, in utter darkness, a darkness more than night.
Chapter Two
Sheriff Lance Garrity
Lance got a call not long after he hung up with Walker. He checked the caller ID, felt his stomach drop. With a heavy heart, he answered the phone.
“Jessamine County Sheriff,” Garrity said.
“Lance Garrity?” the man asked.
“Yeah, this is him.”
“This is Detective Alex Weaver with Harrodsburg P.D. Are you still in Nicholasville?”
“I’m at the station right now.”
“There’s been an…incident at your place.”
“What kind of incident.”
He read Garrity the familiar address, then said, “The home is titled in your name. Am I correct in assuming this is your house?”
“It’s my rental,” he said. “Why, what happened?”
“Someone blew it up.”
He sat up straight, a soft ache forming in his heart. “Are there any survivors?”
“It looks like a war zone out here,” Detective Weaver said. His voice was nasal like he’d had his nose broken a few times. “We’ve got dead bodies, shot up cars, buckets of spent brass everywhere.”
“What about my renter?”
“He went out the hard way,” the Detective said. “What exactly did your renter do for a living?”
“He was an old Army buddy of mine and a friend.”
“He’s more dead than disco.”
Garrity was shocked by the statement, instantly angered. “Is that supposed to be cute, Detective Weaver?”
The man cleared his throat. Garrity swallowed hard, felt the spooling up of rage mixing with a prickle of tears in the backs of his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. Gallows humor and all.”
“Let me get someone to cover the station,” Garrity said. “I’ll get down there ASAP.”
“Oh, and Sheriff?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“I wouldn’t eat before you get here.”
When Garrity finally got down to his Harrodsburg rental, he saw the cratered property, the scattered wood, and drywall, the burning pile of sticks that was once his home. His homeowner’s insurance was still intact, but he wasn’t sure what his policy covered regarding World War III.
Beat cops, detectives, crime scene photographers, and the media were already on the scene. Detective Alex Weaver met Garrity on the street. He looked like your typical detective: off-the-rack shirt and tie, discount store shoes, bad haircut, and a slightly crooked nose. He had cauliflower ear in both ears, which meant he spent time wrestling, or in Jiu-Jitsu, but those days were clearly behind him, as evidenced by a dad-bod and the start of jowls around his jawline.
“Sheriff?” Detective Weaver said. Garrity nodded. The man put out his hand and said, “Detective Alex Weaver, Harrodsburg P.D.”
The two men shook hands, but neither really seemed interested in further conversation. Weaver pulled up the crime-scene tape, let Garrity through.
“So you said there weren’t any survivors?” Garrity asked as they skirted the outer perimeter of the scene.
The detective shook his head. “None that we can tell. All these guys going through the debris, they’ll have a clear picture later on today.”
“Where’s my renter?”
“You said he was a friend of yours?” Weaver asked. Lance nodded. “It looks like he pissed off some really bad people. A few of these smoking corpses are Hayseed Rebellion. I’m assuming you’ve heard of those scumbags?”
“Who hasn’t?” Garrity asked.
“Well, your renter did something because these guys came here prepared for war. And a war they got.”
“Do you know exactly who they are?”
“Other than their HR affiliation, no. But we will eventually.”
“But you have no idea otherwise?”
The detective shook his head, frowning. “If it’s any consolation, your friend smoked about a dozen of these fruit loops, give or take.”
“Good,” Garrity said, trying not to think about how Walker had died. “It’s not nearly enough if you ask me, but twelve of these clowns cooling on a slab is better than twelve of them still on their feet.”
Garrity didn’t know what to say. Weaver seemed to have exhausted his conversational skills. They walked around back together, and that’s when he saw Walker. He made himself look at his former friend, really sear that image into his brain. The man had been cooked, butchered, and killed. Taking a visual accounting of each wound, he found himself thinking less like a Sheriff and more like a vigilante. He wanted the people who did this to pay.
He wanted Diesel Daley to pay.
Swallowing over a gigantic lump in his throat, biting back the tears, he said, “I’m going to get back to the station. Keep me appraised on the developments, will you?”
“Yeah, you bet,” Detective Weaver said, studying him.
Garrity headed back to Nicholasville, called Laura in dispatch, and said, “I need to take off the rest of today and part of tomorrow.”
“I’ll alert the others, Sheriff,” the older woman said. “Everything okay?”
“No,” he said in a clipped tone. “Everything is not okay.”
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
“Just cover for me today.”
“Okay.”
Garrity drove back to his house, parked the cruiser beside the barn out back, then pulled open the doors and went inside. He rolled up his sleeves, then started moving hay bales. When he saw the latched door on the floor, he took a deep breath—still unable to believe he was doing this—then let it out in a measured release.
He finally bent down, pulled up the trapdoor, then climbed down inside the renovated cellar where he had hidden Walker’s two big boxes. One box was for Walker’s niece, Leighton, and the other was for Walker’s younger brother, Colt. He removed Leighton’s box first, lugged it out to the cruiser, then returned to the barn to shut and conceal the trap door.
The trip north took him to within a few miles of the Ohio state line. He followed his GPS, praying the address Walker gave him was correct. As a Sheriff walking onto NKU’s campus, he received some funny looks from some funny-looking kids. Fighting with the size and weight of the box earned him even more unwanted attention. One skinny kid with drinking-straw-sized arms offered to help him with the box, which Lance thought was classy. Instead, he asked the kid for directions to Leighton’s dorm.
“I’ll take you there,” the kid offered.
On the way there, they made small talk, but the sickness in his gut over what had happened to Walker made him good for clunky conversation only. It was all he could do to keep his lunch down, let alone be interesting to an uninteresting kid.
When they arrived at the dorms, Garrity thanked the kid, bid him a good afternoon, then walked inside. At Leighton’s door, he set the box down, wiped the sweat from his brow, then took a big breath and knocked. A moment later, a beautiful blond who was part country girl, part city girl answered the door. His heart dropped. It was all he could do to keep from tearing up. Digging deep into his soul, chastising himself for even thinking about caving to his emotions, he smiled and said, “Hi, Leighton.”
“Sheriff Garrity,” she said with a big smile, and an even bigger hug, “what brings you out here?”
“I’m the USPS today,” he smiled. “Special delivery for one Leighton McDaniel.”
“Who’s it from?”
“Your uncle Walker.”
With that, he watched her face drop. “You’ve seen him?”
“He wanted you to have this on your twenty-first birthday,” he said. A shameless lie he told to keep his emotions at bay.
“But I’m not twenty-one yet.”
“I know that.”
“So…”
“He called me,” he said, unable to hold her eyes. “He said I needed to take it to you right away.”
“Is he okay?”
“I don’t know, but you know Walker. The man is a vagabond.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen him,” she said, that same sad look on her face. “How is he? Is he alright?”
He cleared his throat, then said, “I have to get back on the road, Leighton. I only know what I’ve told you. But it was good to see you. I hope you’re liking it here.”
“It’s great,” she said, perking back up.
He picked up the box, walked it inside, set it on the floor beside her bed. Looking at her, knowing she was Colt and Faith’s youngest daughter—knowing t
he fire in those two, and in Walker—he wasn’t worried about the girl, even though he wondered if he should be.
“I’m happy to hear that,” he said. “If anyone gives you any trouble—”
She made a fist with her middle knuckle sticking out just the smallest bit, then shot it out in front of her. “Soft targets, right?”
“Right.”
“Eyes, nose, throat, balls.”
“Bingo.”
She hugged him again and said, “You look really good, Sheriff, but you also look a little tired. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Just a bit exhausted is all.”
“Don’t fall asleep on the drive home,” she said. “Put on some—”
“I know, put on some rock music, roll down the window, and go really fast. Just don’t get pulled over.”
The two of them laughed together, which absolutely squeezed his heart in a fist.
“I have my Rob Zombie playlist loaded up on Spotify. And I’m no stranger to speed. I’ll just flash the lights, smoke the tires, and blast the A/C.”
She laughed again, which made him even sadder, and then they said good-bye. Before leaving, he found a restroom, went into a stall, and completely broke down. He didn’t want to melt down there, but he and Walker had known each other most of their adult lives. The fact that Diesel would blow up his house and kill Walker execution-style made Garrity want to turn in the badge, load up his guns, and go on a massive killing spree.
But he couldn’t do that.
Not yet.
Back in his cruiser, as he got on the 275 heading back to Nicholasville, he thought of his interactions with Leighton. If he could hardly hold it together with her—and she was Walker’s niece—how in the world was he supposed to keep his emotions in check when he went to Colt’s house? He didn’t know. All he knew was that his right foot was heavy on the pedal, Rob Zombie was growling out Black Sunshine, and he had some rather tumultuous emotions to drive off.
Chapter Three
Sheriff Lance Garrity
Lance took the 275 to the 71, and the 71 became the 75, which took him south to Lexington. He navigated his way to the 4, circled around Lexington, then hit the 27 with a few miles to go before entering the Nicholasville city limits. When he was just outside Nicholasville, he saw them—a scumbag caravan comprised of motorcycles, old trucks, and vintage cars that looked like they’d been dragged out of the boneyard and had the dust blown off them. These old cars and older bikes—these vehicles that looked like absolute hell on wheels—were the calling cards of the Hayseed Rebellion and their various criminal offshoots.