The Abandon Series | Book 2 | These Times of Retribution

by Schow, Ryan

  Finally, he put his binos down, shrugged off his rucksack, then removed his beanie and shut off his iPod. “Let me walk the garden and I’ll think about it.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’ll call Gator and dust off the Shield.” She was referring to her 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P SHIELD.

  “That’s a bit premature,” he said.

  He didn’t tell her he was carrying it already. He didn’t want the questions, or the assumptions, because he wasn’t that person any more. That guy did bad things.

  “He’s still wearing your hat, and now we’re going to be neighbors,” Faith frowned. “So I don’t think it’s premature, for either of us.”

  “Saying he’s our neighbor is definitely premature. He could be buying dogs, or drugs…you don’t know.”

  “I’m going to call Gator either way.”

  Shaking his head at her, “My God, woman! You are so stubborn, I swear you’re going to be the death of me.”

  He opened his jacket, unhooked the holster, then handed her the gun.

  She saw this and smiled.

  “Don’t get any ideas about me carrying from now on,” he said. “I was just taking a new route and didn’t want to get shot without having a way to shoot back.”

  “I’m still happy to see you carrying.”

  “You’re going to be the death of us both if you don’t get your head right,” he said to her, regretting ever taking her pistol in the first place.

  She took the weapon and said, “My head is fine.” When Colt didn’t respond, Faith leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. “There’s a couple of tomato worms on your early girls.”

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” he asked.

  “This was more important.”

  “I’ll be inside in a few, then,” he said, no longer wanting to run.

  He walked to his tomato plants and saw the beautiful leaves being devoured by these bright green veggie-terrorists and bristled. He snatched three of them off the plants, tossed their plump bodies into a pile, then stomped on them. It was a terrible thing to do—killing something that was just doing what it was created to do—but he wasn’t about to sacrifice this summer’s tomato harvest for the sake of mercy.

  Worried now, he fingered through the leaves from his tomato plants, checking for more worms. He found a few little ones, pulled them off, then threw them into the pile with the others. When he was done stomping them to death, he ground them into the earth, then looked down the hill to where Vitaliy’s place was situated.

  The scumbags in their junkyard rattletraps were taking off. They pulled onto Watts Mills and gunned it. Tires barked, engines knocked and roared, and then black clouds of smoke puffed out of a couple of rather boisterous mufflers.

  Shaking his head, he watched them leave. The Jeep was last to go. Seeing it drive off, Colt fantasized about putting the driver in the sights of his brother’s M82. For a moment, it felt good, thinking like that, and then it didn’t. The very idea of taking another life bothered him. It made him think back to Afghanistan, to the woman lying in the room, a hole in her head, a child still feeding on her breast.

  Shaking the thoughts loose, he made his way down the driveway, crossed the road, and walked onto Vitaliy’s property. The old man saw him, pulled up his cap, and waved.

  “Morning, Vitaliy,” Colt said.

  Vitaliy was famously short on words, but he was short on hair and teeth, too. Colt approached the man with an outstretched hand; Vitaliy took it and gave it a good shake.

  “Morning to you.”

  The Russian was old, his face impossibly weathered, his eyes tucked into the wrinkled, crowding flesh. He refused to smile, but these were the customs of people from the old world.

  “Faith said you’re renting the place out while you head back home.”

  He nodded, still no smile.

  “Were those guys the new tenants?” he asked. Vitaliy nodded again, absolutely refusing to waste any words. “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “When they’re gone, I’ll come back home.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t want to rent in the first place, and certainly not to them,” he finally said. He chewed on something in his mouth, his lips working, his face pulling as a result of it. “But some people have a way with words and too much cash on hand.”

  “Does your daughter really have cancer?” Colt asked.

  He waited for a beat, then shook his head with a sad look on his face. “My only daughter died a few years ago in a drive-by shooting in Moscow.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Colt said, his concern deepening further. “Where are you going to be staying?”

  “With my brother in Ohio.”

  “Is your home owner’s insurance up to date?” Colt asked.

  “It will be this afternoon. Be careful, Colt. You and Faith. I’m not going to say any more about those guys. Just be careful.”

  He shook the man’s hand again and said, “Well, good luck to you.”

  “You, too.”

  Colt walked up to the house, battling that same sick feeling. He didn’t want to go back to the way he was, but it was looking more and more like he’d have to at least keep that guy on deck. Just the thought of that had him wanting to throw up. He hated that guy. That guy was no one’s friend, and terribly cold.

  “Did you go to Vitaliy’s place?” Faith asked, knowing him well enough.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “And?”

  “I think you’re right,” he said. “We should go up to Gator’s place, get the M82 ready for action, and get you behind the SHIELD.”

  “I like my gun.”

  “It looks good on you, not to fetishize the weapon, or you.”

  Leaning in, kissing him deeply because that’s how they stayed connected after three kids and nearly twenty-five years, she said, “Fetishize me, Colt. Fetishize me all you want.”

  Gator’s place was off the beaten path and burrowed into the woods. To say he was anti-social wouldn’t be right, but to say he was insulated from just about anyone or anything would be more accurate. The private contractor now lived on forty-five acres, complete with his own outdoor shooting range.

  “Let me see that thing,” Gator said, looking at Colt’s Barret. “My God, it’s like you’re compensating for something smaller.” He backhand-smacked the front of Colt’s pants, catching him on the top of the pecker and laughing out loud.

  Faith saw this and burst into laughter.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Colt said, rubbing out the sting. “And I’m not compensating for anything, but if I was, Faith wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Yes, I would,” she said, still giggling. He loved the sound of her laughter. It had been a while since he’d heard it, and Gator seemed to know that.

  Taking in the beauty of the trees and surrounding lands, feeling a slight breeze on his skin, was pure heaven. Part of him was envious of Gator, but the bigger part of him wasn’t envious at all. He was alone and wedded to the job. To afford the place, Gator was forced to take on contracts here and there. When Colt had asked how he felt about that, he’d said, “You finance your dreams with vegetables. I pay for mine with bullets.”

  Gator was younger than Colt by a few years and far more energetic. He was also a hard man who lived a hard life on purpose. He said it kept him sharp. But as Faith liked to remind him, a hard man who lived an unbalanced life was also a single man. Faith was a romantic at heart, but Gator was fond of telling Colt love could be bought when it was needed and he didn’t need it just yet.

  “I put our targets up,” Gator announced as Colt assembled the M82.

  “Is that a car down there?” Faith asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  Colt scoped out the vehicle downrange. About eight hundred yards away, near the standing metal targets and a few well-placed deer, was a light-blue import with one window broken out and what looked like bullet holes in the door.

  “Sure i
s,” Gator said proudly. “It’s a Toyota Tercel. I bought it just last week.”

  “Did it drive?” Colt asked.

  Gator shook his head as he put on his glasses and his ears. He pulled one side of the tactical earmuffs back to hear out of at least one ear.

  “So how’d you get it all the way up here?”

  “Practically dragged the thing up behind the truck,” Gator said.

  By then, Gator had his M1A ready to rock and roll. Faith was locked and loaded. She put on her glasses, then her earmuffs, and then she sighted a nearby target, let out her breath, and fired.

  “I’m thinking of getting one of those,” Gator leaned in and said to Colt.

  “A Smith & Wesson?”

  “A wife.”

  Colt grinned and nodded, then he looked at his friend and said, “It’s time then?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  He grabbed Gator’s beard and gave it a yank. “Whatcha gonna do with this big broom?”

  Gator slapped his hand away, laughed, and said, “Not sure. Some girls like it, but those might not be the girls to settle down with.”

  “I’ve pretty much forgotten what your face looks like under there,” Colt said, loading the M82’s magazine with fifty caliber rounds.

  Gator had his trucker’s hat turned backward, his black tac glasses on, and his beard combed long and clean. Where Colt had let his physical size dwindle, Gator only seemed to increase in size and mass. Faith met Colt when he was skinny, but he bulked up hard in the Army, which she liked. After the Army, which he couldn’t seem to leave quickly enough, he stopped taking the protein shakes and the testosterone shots, and then he stopped working out altogether. About the same time he gave up his physique, he gave up regular shooting. Now that he was behind the M82, he felt the familiar feelings starting to surface. He was instantly struck with visions of riding on the backs of Humvees, life in the sand, breaching doors, and lighting up dissidents. For a moment, he wavered, shot through with a wave of dizziness. He sat up for a second, stilled his panic.

  “You alright?” Gator asked.

  “It’s just the old days creeping back in,” he said.

  “Yeah, those were tough times.”

  He agreed. Drawing a deep breath, calming himself from the inside out, he fought to wipe clear the images of the dead bodies and destruction.

  “You got this, bro,” Gator said, settling back into his own firing position.

  Colt sighted his target, focused on his breathing, then fired the weapon.

  The big boom had Gator laughing with envy. “My God, that thing sounds like a hard-on!”

  “Gator,” Faith warned.

  He held his hands up and said, “I’m sorry, Faith, but dang…you heard that, right?”

  “I heard it and I felt it.”

  So did Colt. He felt the shot going off-target. The round punched a hole in the back door of the Tercel rather than the front door, which was where he’d been aiming.

  “One of those days,” Gator said, “I want to get on that bronco.”

  Colt grinned, then put his head back down and sighted his target. The next shot was better but still too far off. He told himself it would take time, that he needed to work on his patience. He needed the practice, but he also needed to bond with the rifle.

  He grouped the next four rounds, inching his way toward his target. By the time he emptied the first magazine, Gator had stopped firing his weapon and had decided to watch Colt instead.

  “That’s nice and tight,” Gator said.

  When Colt studied his grouping, when he made a mental note of what he needed to do to hit his target, he heard Faith say, “You were right, Gator. That thing does sound like a hard-on.”

  The three of them started to laugh, which was music to Colt’s ears. Looking at Gator, he wondered what it would be like to go to war with him. He’d never spent time running shoulder-to-shoulder on the battlefield with the former Green Beret, but he would not have had a problem with it back in the day. Now, he wondered if they were already on the battlefield.

  Shaking it off, he said, “One more mag, and it should be tight enough for prom.”

  “You’re starting in now, too?” Faith asked, grinning.

  The three of them didn’t wrap it up one mag later. Instead, they shot for another hour, which was long enough for Colt to finally call it a day. His shoulder was rattled to the bone, but his grouping was tight, and he was shooting on target again.

  “What are you doing for work right now?” Faith asked Gator as she ejected the Smith & Wesson’s mag and checked the chamber.

  “Things have been a bit tough since peace broke out in the Middle East.”

  “Yeah?” Faith asked.

  Colt saw her glancing down at Gator’s bulging biceps and his oversized pecs. The man was taller than Colt by a few inches, but the differences between them were stark.

  Note to self: start working out again, shoot more often.

  “I opened up an online store selling paper targets,” he said.

  “Paper targets?” Colt asked.

  “Yeah, but with the faces of annoying people on each target. I’ve got a solid stock of your favorite anti-American celebrities, corrupt and annoying politicians, the heads of two social media companies, and three former dictators.”

  “Which targets sell best?” Colt asked.

  “The politicians.”

  “And you can make a good living?” Faith asked.

  “Good enough for this,” he said, opening his hands and spreading them out. “It doesn’t take much, though. I’m mostly self-sufficient.”

  Gator’s house was small, well-insulated, and laid out nicely. It couldn’t be more than a thousand square feet, but it was perfect for him. Better still, the property was difficult to get to by car and barely navigable in the snow, which was why Gator owned an old four-wheeler.

  “Now, all you need is a proper driveway,” Colt said.

  “No can do,” Gator grinned.

  “Colt can help you put one in,” Faith offered.

  “That would make it too easy for anyone to come right up here,” Gator reasoned.

  “I guess that makes sense,” Faith said. “I’ve got to get back home and get ready for my classes.”

  “You still running boot camps?” Gator asked.

  “I run the two o’clock, the five o’clock, and the six o’clock classes, but only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

  “Well, get to it,” he said. “I can clean up here.”

  “You’ll come over for dinner next week, then?” Faith asked. “It’s our way of saying thanks.”

  “No need to twist my arm,” he joked. Looking at Colt, he said, “By the way, I heard some douchebag got one over on you. Is that right?”

  Colt fired his wife a look. She turned away, unwilling to meet his eyes. Back to Gator, he said, “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “A little blond birdy said this same knucklehead is moving in across the street.”

  “It would seem so.”

  “Do I have to worry about you and Walker’s rifle?”

  “Not me,” Colt said. “The other guy, maybe. But no, not me.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get any of his blood on your hat,” Gator joked. “And try to shoot him outdoors. Better to hide DNA that way.”

  Turning to Faith, he said, “You even told him about my hat?”

  She managed to both shrug her shoulders and look extra sexy at the same time. He didn’t know how she did that, but she could do just about anything she set her mind to.

  “Time to go,” he finally said.

  “Is she in trouble?” Gator joked.

  “Uh-huh,” she replied with a smile, but not a nervous smile.

  Chapter Nine

  Sheriff Lance Garrity

  The first call of the day was from a talkative woman complaining about sewage in her back yard that was coming from the new housing development along the golf course. This wasn’t Garrity’s jurisdiction,
and he said as much. The next caller complained of gunshots up the street. He sent Marilyn out to check it out. After that, Garrity got a call from a concerned citizen who didn’t want to give her name.

  “I saw the Jeep from the Kroger going down Sugar Creek Pike. I followed them to Watts Mill Road. It looks like they’re moving. Are these monsters actually living here, Sheriff? Because one of them picked a fight with my cousin at the Valero.”

  “Do you have an address?” he asked, trying not to let his nerves show.

  She read off the address.

  Closing his eyes, Garrity ran a hand through his hair. There were good days and bad days, and this was shaping out to be a bad day.

  He said, “Okay, then, I’ll check it out.”

  She thanked him, then ended the call. Garrity grabbed his jacket, told Laura where he was headed, and then he drove to the house across from Colt’s home. That sinking feeling more than doubled. He walked down the driveway, headed around the side to the front door, then knocked firmly. A young woman answered a moment later, a strawberry blond with bruising on her arms.

  “Keaton, it’s the sheriff,” she turned and said.

  “Tell ‘em to piss off,” the voice said.

  Garrity shook his head, then called out in return. “You the one picking fights with people at gas stations?”

  A gross man with food in his beard walked up. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. His skin was tattoos and two nipple piercings. “I ain’t done nothing wrong, so I suggest you get off my property. Less’n you got a warrant. You got a warrant, Sheriff?”

  Garrity frowned.

  Putting his hands in his pockets, pushing the front of his pants down just enough for a tuft of black pubic hair to push out, he said, “I’m just moving in, and you ain’t making me feel very welcome.”

  “If you have any issues—” he started to say.

  “I’ll handle them myself, same as always,” the brute said.