The Last War Series Box Set [Books 1-7]

by Schow, Ryan

  The minute I set foot inside, its spaciousness and beauty gives me pause. We’re talking beachwood hardwood floors, crisp white walls, a shale fireplace that runs floor to ceiling and an open, modern kitchen that gives it an old Hollywood feel with a Cape Cod soul.

  There isn’t a ton of square feet, but what there is has been done so perfectly, I almost wonder if some designer with a European accent, a strange name and a bowl-cut hairdo charged a veritable fortune in its creation.

  “My God,” I hear myself say.

  “Right?” Bailey says, her eyes soft with wonder, the collapse happening outside these lavish walls temporarily forgotten.

  “The ceilings,” I hear myself saying.

  Horizontal open beams of rough cut wood line the ceiling, all of it painted stark white. All around us, tons of natural lighting pours in through the open windows highlighting white walls with seafoam green accents and the kind of furniture so pristine and expensive looking you wonder if staring at it feels more appropriate than sitting on it. Heaven forbid, a single crease mar the otherwise lovely surface.

  “This place makes my home back in San Francisco look like a squatter’s box.”

  “Hey Architectural Design, we’ve got bigger things to do here,” Marcus says. “Starting with us taking inventory.”

  Marcus says this while rifling through the pantry and the cupboards. When he stands up, he turns, smiles and says, “Bingo!” He’s holding up a box of Glad black bags. Pulling out four of the flex-fit bags, he hands them to us one-by-one and says, “Fill them with essentials only, but remember whatever you pack in there, we have to walk it a few blocks and down the dock to the boat.”

  Then to Bailey he says, “Check upstairs. See if there’s anything new you can wear. Sensible not cute.”

  She flashes him a look and says, “What if they’re both sensible and cute?”

  “Then we’ll celebrate later,” he answers deadpan.

  She tromps upstairs while the three of us gather food, paper plates, silverware and other more immediate necessities into the bags.

  Marcus doesn’t find any weapons, but we find extra blankets, a pair of winter coats and an old flashlight with new batteries. I’m not sure we’ll need all this stuff. Then again, we might need all of it. Dear God, how do you prepare for something like this?

  The reality is, you can’t.

  Whatever we don’t use we can always leave behind. Just use the world as our personal garbage can. Jeez, what a truly depressing thought. If we dropped our trash, would anyone notice? Would anyone care? What about if we were the trash? That begs the question: if we just dropped dead in the streets, would anyone even notice?

  Probably not.

  Bailey doesn’t find any clothes that fit. I’m here half worrying myself to death about Mother Earth and she’s stuck in a fashion drought. She looks depressed. Her spirits lift a bit as she helps pack up our loot, but there is still that hope that she can find something clean and cute to wear.

  We’re loaded and ready to go, but the bags are heavier than we anticipated, so it’s murder dragging everything to the boat. We do it though. We empty it all out on the boat then head back to hit one more house.

  Maybe two.

  We pass Botox lady’s house, wander further up the block, start knocking on doors fairly quickly. No one answers. The island truly does have that emptied-out feel. We target a home that looks modern, but without that east coast feel. We’re looking for something a little less extravagant. Something not as nice as everything else. Marcus says all the old people own the nicest things because they have the most money.

  “Isn’t that what we want?” Bailey asks. “Don’t we want to hit the nicest homes?”

  “Not if we’re going to get you out of those clothes.”

  Bailey casts the big man a questioning look, one I find rather curious. Is she intrigued? Confused? The sexual innuendo draws a prying look from Quentin.

  “Explain,” Bailey says.

  “You look like hell and you need new clothes,” Marcus explains. “You’re not going to find anything sensible or cute in an old lady’s house.”

  “Oh,” she says, chilling out. “That’s what you meant.”

  He turns and looks at her, as if he’s offended, and says, “What did you think I was referring to?” He glances at me and Quentin, gets it, then shakes his head and says, “Unbelievable.”

  The house we target, it looks pretty amazing inside, maybe as nice as the last but much younger looking. Like the designer never saw the Hampton’s but knew the exact tastes of the new moneyed crowds.

  Marcus breaks a window in back, lets us in the front door. Bailey and Quentin head to the master bedroom, find a jackpot of clothes—which they stuff into new black bags—then head out front to wait for me and Marcus.

  We’re in the back of the house, in the pantry rounding up a stockpile of food. Looking back, I wonder if that’s why I didn’t hear what was happening.

  By then, it was already too late…

  A rent-a-cop in a bluish-gray SECURITY uniform drew his revolver, pointed it at Quentin and Bailey and said, “Drop the bags, get on your knees, put your hands behind your heads.”

  Bailey and Quentin startled, stopping in their tracks.

  The white cop was wild eyes, a shooter’s stance, all business. Bailey glanced at Quentin whose eyes were shot wide and locked in on the slightly overweight, slightly balding guard—a man who seemed to have come from nowhere. Quentin let a snide smile loose, then gave a little laugh.

  “You’re not even a real cop,” Quentin said, relaxing. “You’re just an out of shape Poindexter with a gun and a fake mall cop badge.”

  The portly “cop” blanched. Brows knitting tight, the grip on the pistol tightening at the challenge, the errant comment either made him more insecure or more dangerous. Bailey wasn’t sure which it was.

  “You think this gun is fake?” he barked. “You think these bullets won’t cut right through you? Because this is a real gun with real bullets and if I pull this trigger and double tap either of you, there’ll be real blood and a real God’s honest death.”

  Bailey was suddenly scared. She was starting to get a better read on him. He looked like he could be clumsy, and not just because he was obviously out of shape, but because he had that awkward appearance. She got the feeling he was the kind of kid who got bullied all his life then took a job where he could carry a gun and make sure guys like Quentin never bullied him again.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Bailey heard herself ask.

  If anything, she was good at neutralizing tough situations. At least she used to think that. Now she hoped to God she could stop this situation from careening out of control.

  “Yeah,” he said, his words sharp and cutting. “I know exactly what’s going on. You’re using a bad situation as cover to rob my mom’s neighborhood.”

  Now it made sense. This was the Botox lady’s son.

  “This is worse than a bad situation, Paul Blart,” Quentin said, joking but not joking at all.

  It was clear he wasn’t mall security, but he wasn’t a real cop either and if this was a sore subject for him, then Quentin just might be poking the bear.

  “Doesn’t give you the right to rob people,” he retorted.

  “It’s survival of the fittest,” Quentin challenged, sizing him up. “And you’re about as fit as a plus size model, mall cop edition.”

  “I’m taking you in,” the fake cop said.

  “You can’t even take your waistline in,” Quentin said, picking up his bag of clothes.

  The security guard who wasn’t a security guard, and whose badge read Clinton, stepped forward fast, jammed the gun in Quentin’s face and hissed, “Go ahead and tempt me, scumbag. I’m gonna put this smoke wagon to the test, see how big a hole I can put in that stupid looking head of yours. And who’d stop me? I’m not the real law, but right now, I’m the only law and it’s my way or the dead way.”

  “Hi Clinton, I’m
Quentin,” he said, a little less lively than before. “I’ve never met a high school shooter before, but you seem the type.”

  Clinton didn’t say a word. This caused Quentin to pause, his eyes fixated on the barrel of the gun. Quentin dropped his bag, sunk to his knees and begrudgingly complied with the security guard, or whatever he was.

  Bailey followed suit, looking more at Quentin than Clinton. Somewhere along the way, she feared this guy might have cracked. How deep did his psychosis go? Was there something deeply wrong with him before the attack or did the attack change him? She would never know, but that didn’t stop the questions from banging around in her head.

  “Eyes front and center, sweetheart,” Clinton said, obnoxiously snapping his fingers.

  “You from the island?” Quentin asked, unflappable.

  “Who else is with you?” Clinton asked as if he hadn’t heard Quentin’s question.

  Whatever position this clown had now that Quentin and Bailey were on their knees, he seemed to revel in, like it hardened him, made him cross that line between unhinged and demanding.

  “It’s just us,” Bailey lied.

  “You a couple?” Clinton asked, live-wire eyes looking back and forth between them.

  The pair shook their heads, but it was Bailey who said, “No. Absolutely not.” This caused Quentin to huff to himself, as if he didn’t need the insult when everything else was already going so wrong.

  “Good,” Clinton said, cracking her on the head with the butt of his pistol.

  Rocked hard and blinded by a sharp, dizzying pain, Bailey’s head dumped forward and started to bleed. The fake cop grabbed a handful of her hair, jerked her to her feet, then growled, “Time to pay the piper.”

  “You don’t want to do this man,” Quentin said, suddenly alarmed and getting to his feet. Clinton was dragging her away from Quentin while Quentin was following, his voice rising, true fear throwing a wild edge to what was once a pair of slacker’s eyes.

  Bailey did the only thing she could do, she started to fight, but another wallop from the butt of the gun on the top of her head wobbled her to the point of not being able to stand steady.

  Quentin was screaming now and the fake cop was barking back, threatening him, shaking the gun at him. Just then, Marcus rushed out the front door, the .357 drawn. Clinton adjusted his weapon slightly, fired three quick rounds at Marcus.

  Using the distraction, Quentin burst into a flat out impressive sprint toward her and Clinton, but two shots stopped him cold. Quentin’s chest curled into a hard C, knocking the breath out of him, staggering him. Holding his chest, an incredible look of agony crossing his face, he sunk to his knees and collapsed.

  Bailey’s legs gave out and she crashed down on her tailbone. Shockwaves of hard, jarring agony traveled up her spine, but the worst pain wasn’t in the fall as much as it was in her pulled hair. Clinton’s grip turned violent.

  She yelped like a kicked dog and fell into fits of screaming because she couldn’t contain herself anymore. Horrified, sure he was going to kill her, or worse, she clawed and raked at his hand, digging her nails in his skin, tearing bloody trails in it until he finally let go in a tirade of curses.

  She scrambled to get free, but the rent-a-cop punched her in the back of the head, causing everything to go black for a quick second. She came to, feeling four fat fingers hooking into the soft underside of her chin. She didn’t realize right away that she was on her back, so she couldn’t get free of what was to come.

  Weak but driven, she tried hitting his arm. It did nothing. He started to drag her by her head. Her feet flopped around and kicked at the pavement, trying to push her out of the grip he had on her face. It was no use, he was too strong.

  She finally got free and sat up in an attempt to flee, but he drove his knee into her back twice, rattling her, unseating her senses.

  There were more shots fired, a veritable volley of them.

  Her body brutalized, sufficiently beaten, Clinton once again hooked his fingers under her jaw. She could no longer fight him. It was no use. With a sudden jolt, he jerked her head backwards so hard she wondered if he was trying to yank it clean off her body. Grunting, he hauled her backwards, dragging her across the pavement like a sack of garbage.

  The gunfire continued, causing her abductor to duck and sway.

  Shot through with agony, the pain dizzying, terrifying, she clawed at Clinton’s arm. He didn’t seem to notice this time. He didn’t seem to care.

  Looking up, her eyes saw the underside of the maniac’s face, his drawn weapon, the dead gaze of a psycho on a mission. The bucking and firing of his weapon failed to move her. She was snared by the fear. Immobilized by the pain. And the horror of seeing Quentin shot? It filled her head with a million vile possibilities of what was about to happen to her.

  Clinton dragged her down the street until they came upon a white panel van. Marcus must have made another appearance because two rounds hit the back of the van and Clinton opened fire once more, popping off four more shots.

  Suddenly she heard a sharp, high voltage buzzing, then she was hit with a taser on the chest that damn near drew her body into a white hot fit. He didn’t let up. Somewhere along the way, Bailey managed to pass out.

  Chapter One Hundred One

  The second Marcus and I hear yelling outside, Marcus grabs his gun and says, “I’ll head to the front, you circle around the back.”

  From the other side of the house, I see the exchange of gunfire. Then I see Quentin take chase only to catch two bullets in the chest.

  Horror struck, a cold fear racing down my spine, I stand paralyzed, mortified, unsure of what to do or how to act. Should I take chase? Catch two bullets myself?

  I just can’t stand here and do nothing!

  Bailey…

  The thickset pig-goblin cracks her over the skull with his gun several times as he drags her backwards first by her hair, then by the underside of her jaw.

  Something in me starts to tremble with rage, to shake and drive me forward, but he’s still got the gun. My eyes bounce from Bailey to the kidnapper, then jump back to Quentin writhing in the street, and then to Marcus with the gun.

  Another exchange of gunfire rattles me to the bone.

  The security guard is shot at, but Marcus misses him. He fires back, forcing Marcus to retreat inside. I’m just about to make a run for it when Marcus fires two more shots that hit the van rather than the guard.

  Inside I’m thinking, how is he missing these shots? But this isn’t the movies and the weapon he’s shooting isn’t his. Perhaps the sights are off, or he’s too far away. Maybe he was never a good shot. Or maybe he’s terrified of hitting Bailey and so he’s being overly cautious…

  The guy who looks like some kind of security guard drags Bailey behind the panel van. I start after them. That’s when I hear the crackling sound of electricity. Bailey’s legs buck and shake. Taser? Yeah, taser.

  Crap.

  On the neighbor’s porch are a pair of cruiser bikes and a heavy rock I assume is for holding the front gate open. I grab the rock, wondering if I’m going to throw it at him or stone him to death if I catch him.

  I take chase as the van’s door slams shut. I pick up speed as it starts up and tears off. Dropping the rock, eyeing Quentin on the way by (his eyes meet mine, they’re faint, but right now all I can think about is Bailey!), I race back to the neighbor’s bikes.

  Kicking open the decorative gate, I shove the bike onto the porch, mount it and take off like a startled mare. Marcus is suddenly at Quentin’s side, holding a seeping wound, telling him to hang on while he tries to find something to stem the bleeding.

  I race by the two of them, pedaling like my life depends on it. No, like Bailey’s life depends on it. It’s foolish to think I can catch him, but even fools have hope and sometimes enough heart to overcome even impossible obstacles.

  Will I be that fool?

  The van wastes no time leaving the island, but sporadic traffic slows him, forc
ing him to take sidewalks and move into opposing lanes. Where it’s relatively quiet on the island, on the mainland there are still some people stupid enough not to take shelter.

  Unless they’re skating town because of the drone strike…

  Once I get off the island, I follow the van, which takes a hard left on Bayside heading up the coast.

  I’m pumping the pedals with all my might, my lungs on fire just trying to keep the van in view. It disappears around a corner, along with whatever hope of a rescue I might’ve had. Not giving up, I double my efforts, making a left on Bayside, barely avoiding being hit by a VW Jetta driving like a bat out of hell. Seconds later a drone zips by and opens fire on it, riddling it with gunfire.

  What the hell am I doing out here in the open?

  Standing, pedaling with all my might, I race down Bayside, avoiding the chaos of intermittent traffic. Up ahead, around the bend, seven cars are piled up in the roadway, several of them smoking, two on fire. Drones, or bad driving? It could be either possibility now that war has been waged.

  The white van comes into view! It’s bumping and pushing its way through the accidental roadblock, giving me a chance to close the distance.

  The tightness in my chest, however, is so constricting I’m having a hard time breathing. If I let the van get away, if I lose Bailey after everything we’ve gone through, I’ll never forgive myself.

  So I dig in and pedal harder, the edges of my vision blurring, sweat draining from my pores by the gallon.

  The van finally breaks through the fiery mess at great cost to its external integrity before gathering speed again. I’m already at top speed, flying after them. Where the roadway is blocked by wrecked and mangled cars and people in a panic, both fleeing their vehicles and trying to help others, I blow through the opening the van provided.

  I jet through the entanglements feeling somewhat renewed. The van is in sight! That’s when one of the cars explodes, the expulsion of heat and force throwing me off the bike. Airborne, going too fast, my bike and I slam into the pavement, limbs tangled in the metal frame. My bare knees and elbows skid across the pavement, my cheek skipping twice on the asphalt and cutting open for sure.